


On the Importance of Timing

by lockheed_london



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Adultery, Angst, Falling In Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:21:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockheed_london/pseuds/lockheed_london
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill for this prompt on the Cabin Pressure prompt meme:</p>
<p>http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/6625.html?thread=11325153#cmt11325153</p>
<p>Which requested epic romance with hurdles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Douglas would like to say that his attention had been fixed on the young man from the moment he set foot in the café, but in actual fact that’s not quite true. He’s just finished a very nice lunch, and is so engrossed in an interesting article in his newspaper that the jingle of the bell above the door barely registers on his senses, and it’s not until his phone buzzes with a text from his daughter that his concentration is broken. He replies to the text – smiling faintly as he does so; she’s still of an age where his trips all over the world are the most exciting thing ever – and glances briefly around the café. His attention is arrested by the young man at the back of the queue, who’s reading the menu behind the counter while chewing his lip indecisively. He’s dressed in frayed jeans and an old T-shirt and heavy boots that, unlike the similar footwear sported by the café’s other patrons, has clearly been chosen more for sturdiness than style; he’s perhaps a couple of inches shorter than Douglas, but so lean that it makes him seem taller than he actually is.

The young man seems to be all elbows and legs and awkward coltish grace, an impression that’s reinforced when he steps back to allow someone to pass and stumbles over the large sports bag on the ground between his feet, bumping into the person behind him in the queue and turning hastily to apologise. Douglas can see his cheek flushing; when the young man turns back around he catches Douglas watching him and gives an awkward little half-smile before dropping his gaze and looking away.

He’s rather attractive, if you like that sort of thing, and Douglas is mildly surprised at himself for thinking it. Not because he’s a man – let it never be said that Douglas Richardson was dull enough to confine himself only to one sex in his dalliances – but rather because these past three years he’s been faithful to his wife and not allowed himself to consider the attractiveness of anyone he met. Or at least not consider it in anything other than a distant way, as one might appreciate a piece of artwork.

And the more fool him: it’s now been six months since Helena’s departure, hard on the heels of her confession. He doesn’t know precisely where she’s gone; she mentioned something about staying with a friend, which doubtless means that she’s moved in with that ridiculous man and his Tai Chi mats but Douglas has found, over time, that he minds less than he thought he would. It’s not that he relishes being on his own – he’s always preferred having a partner to being single- but it’s a sad commentary on how far things between them had deteriorated that Douglas now looks forward to coming home to a dark, empty flat far more than the tense atmosphere that had been there before. It’s sometimes lonely on his own, but at his age Douglas can’t really see himself having the time or the energy to put in the work to build a new relationship, and he’s been trying to resign himself to the idea of being single.

Douglas glances back at the young man and finds him in the act of paying, and as he watches the man steps to one side, making way for the next customer even as he’s trying to juggle his change, and his coffee, and his bag. He’s growing more flustered by the moment, setting his bag down and then almost stumbling over it again before picking it up, scanning the crowded tables with an air of increasing desperation. His eyes meet Douglas’ and, on impulse, Douglas tilts his head towards the empty chair at his table, eyebrows raised in friendly invitation.

The man weaves his way through the queue towards Douglas, knocking against people with his bag and hastily apologising, and by the time he reaches Douglas his cheeks are pink and his feathers look distinctly ruffled.

“Hello,” he says. His voice is deep and well-rounded, his words a little rushed. “Um. Is this seat… would you mind if I–”

“Of course not.” Douglas pushes the chair out for him with the toe of his shoe. “Please.”

“Thanks.”

The young man gives him a brilliant smile in gratitude, transforming him from merely attractive to bloody _gorgeous_ , and Douglas’ sex-drive – more or less defunct since Helena threw him over – chooses that moment to sit up and take notice.

Douglas clears his throat and takes a mouthful of coffee, needing a moment to compose himself. Fortunately his table partner doesn’t seem to notice, being too engaged in sliding into the seat and tucking his bag under it while simultaneously trying to slide his wallet back in his jeans. The café serves its coffee in tall, narrow-based paper cups, more suitable for carrying than standing on a wobbly table, and so when the young man bumps the table then Douglas is ready and catches his cup as soon as it starts to tip, sending a small wavelet of hot coffee over his fingers and causing him to abandon the smooth introduction he was constructing ( _Douglas Richardson, tables for rent by the hour_ ) and replace it with “Careful, there.”

“Oh God, sorry!” The young man flushes further. His hair is a bright red-gold, rather like – Douglas thinks, in a flight of fancy – a young man by Botticelli, and like many people with such hair he has very fair skin that betrays his embarrassment easily. He grabs at the wad of paper napkins that the barista gave him and blots clumsily at Douglas’ fingers.

“Did it scald you? I’m so sorry–”

“It’s fine.” Slightly charmed by the solicitousness – it’s been a while since anyone fussed over him – Douglas takes the napkins, their fingers brushing for a moment, and finishes drying his hand. “No harm done.”

And then, just because he wants to see that smile again, Douglas adds: “I’m not sure you need any more caffeine.”

That does indeed win him another smile, and a half-embarrassed little duck of the head.

“I really don’t.” He picks at the cardboard cup holder, and Douglas can’t help but notice that he has very long fingers. But they’re long without looking delicate; in fact they’re slightly callused, a workman’s hands. “I just needed somewhere to get changed, and buying a coffee seemed like the polite thing to do.”

He nods towards the bag under his chair and Douglas raises an eyebrow.

“Moonlighting as a superhero, are you? I thought telephone boxes were more the thing.”

And the young man’s laugh makes him grin foolishly.

“Not quite. I’m… well, I’m actually starting a new job today.” He glances at his watch. A cheap Swatch, Douglas notes, which lowers the chances of him having a partner. Or at least a serious, long-term one, since a half-decent watch is one of the most obvious things to get a boyfriend for Christmas or birthday.

“Or rather, this afternoon,” he amends. “I had a job this morning, and no time to go home to get changed beforehand.”

“So you already have a job?” Douglas queries. He’s barely met the young man, and already he’s oddly curious for details about his life.

“Well, sort of. I’m a sort of… man with a van,” he says, and bites his lip.

Well. That would certainly explain why his forearms, with their faint scattering of freckles, are so muscular, and the calluses on his hands.

“I see.” Douglas casts about for something encouraging to say: given the way the young man’s long fingers are fiddling with the plastic stirrer it’s clear he thinks it’s something to be embarrassed about. All Douglas comes up with is: “So I suppose today was your last van job, then? Since you’re starting this new one, and all.”

“Oh well. Um…” No luck: he now looks even _more_ embarrassed, and Douglas tries desperately to think of another change of subject until he says: “Not… not really, no. See, I… well, I’m sort of… not really getting paid for this new job. At least not yet. Maybe in a year or so I might see what they can do but for now… yeah There you go.”

Douglas frowns. “Oh.”

The man’s shoulders hunch slightly, defensive, and Douglas quickly changes it to something less severe. “No, I just meant that that’s a bit rotten for you. What company did you say you were working for?”

“Just, um. Just an office one. Admin work, you know the sort of thing.”

“Like an internship,” Douglas says slowly. The refusal to meet his gaze and the nervous fidget of the young man’s fingers all but _scream_ that there’s more to this than meets the eye, but Douglas decides to let it go.

“Look,” the young man bursts out suddenly, “it’s for a company that I really _really_ want to work for, and I was supposed to have an interview with them just over a year ago but my van broke down and I couldn’t make it and so they hired someone else and told me not to bother coming. But they called last week to see if I was still interested and I was, I _am_ , so… there you go.”

He runs out of steam, but his outburst seems to have made him _more_ awkward, not less, and so Douglas tries his best to dispel the lingering tension.

“Well. You’re hardly the first person to take an internship at a good company to get your foot in the door and I doubt you’ll be the last; it’s an eminently sensible career move.”

And his stomach flutters like a nervous teenager’s as the young man gives him another lovely smile.

“So,” Douglas says, trying to keep his tone light and unconcerned, “what are your plans for after your first day at work? Girlfriend taking you out to dinner to celebrate?”

The man laughs and shakes his head. “No. Um... not got a girlfriend, no.”

“Ah.” Usually Douglas wouldn’t be so presumptuous, but something about the quirk of the man’s mouth as he spoke makes Douglas add: “Boyfriend?”

“No.” The young man shakes his head. “No, not got one of those either. Not any more.”

“Oh dear. Apologies, I shouldn’t have asked.”

But Douglas’ heart beats a little faster with the knowledge that he could be interested, at least theoretically.

“No, no, it’s fine. It happened a while ago. Probably all for the best, really.”

“Mmm.” Douglas looks down at his coffee and tries his best to sound casual as he says, “I know the feeling. My partner and I split up six months ago.”

“Oh. _Oh_.”

He’s clearly taken it to mean male partner; Douglas would hardly be the first person to play the pronouns game when referring to his other half and the depth of understanding tells Douglas that the young man has caught hold of the right end of the stick. Which is entirely the wrong end, but if things progress as Douglas hopes then there’ll be time enough to come clean about that.

“What are you reading?”

Douglas is glad to let him change the subject.

“Book reviews,” he says, glancing down at the newspaper lying abandoned in front of him. “But actually before you sat down I was thinking of how much better these titles would sound with the final letter taken off.”

“Oh.” The man thinks for a moment before giving Douglas another of those dazzling smiles, eyes crinkling disarmingly. “You mean like ‘Three Men in a Boa’.”

And there goes the last faint hope that Douglas was going to let this young man leave without giving him Douglas’ mobile number.

***

“Well then,” Douglas says, when they’re standing outside the café about to go their separate ways, after the young man has nipped into the toilet with his bag and emerged again looking very smart in shirt and trousers.

“Good luck with your first day. And if you feel like letting me know how it went then I’d be very interested to hear about it.”

And Douglas slides his hand into his pocket and smoothly produces a paper napkin with his name and number written down, swiftly prepared while the young man was getting changed.

“Oh! Um, yes, that would be lovely.” The young man ducks his head and grins widely as he takes the napkin.

“‘Douglas’, he reads, before looking up and blurting out: “Martin.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m Martin,” he says. “I can’t believe I’ve not introduced myself before, how rude of me.”

“It’s fine,” Douglas replies easily. “Too distracted by the adventures of Peter Rabbi and friends, I imagine.”

Martin laughs and Douglas holds out his hand.

“It’s been a pleasure, Martin,” he says. Apart from Martin’s clumsy blotting of his fingers this is the first time he’s touched Martin; Martin’s hand is warm, his grip firm, and Douglas lingers for longer than he should before letting go.

“Likewise,” Martin says, before glancing at his watch. “Oh goodness, I really should go.”

“Of course.” Douglas takes a step back, tries to look casual. “Wouldn’t do to be late on your first day.”

Douglas can’t even _remember_ the last time he was on time to work, but Martin nods conscientiously and says, “I… um. I wasn’t expecting to get chatting to you, but this was really fun.” He sounds almost surprised. “I… I might give you a ring, then? If that’s ok?”

Douglas grins broadly enough that he’s sure he looks like a fool. “I’d like that very much. You’ve got my number.”

“Bye then.” Martin gives him a last smile before turning and walking off. He glances back just before he disappears around the corner and Douglas gives a little half-wave.

As he turns to walk off in the other direction he finds himself humming, and a spring in his step that hasn’t been there in far too long.


	2. Chapter 2

Douglas is also due to head off to work, but in his case he runs a few errands in town first. He’s never been overly punctual at MJN and Victor – his captain – has never seemed to mind. He’d have a bloody cheek if he tried to pull Douglas up about it, since Victor’s own personal habits are such that bad time-keeping should be the _least_ of his worries.

MJN is a tiny company and goodness knows Carolyn had to hire the cheapest pilots going, but something about Victor sets Douglas’ teeth on edge. He’s snide, and condescending, and the way he talks about Arthur behind the boy’s back makes Douglas long to tell him where to shove his disparaging remarks. Arthur is a little too given to taking things literally but he’s not _stupid_ ; he’s perfectly aware of what Victor thinks of him and he’s so subdued when in the flight deck that it leaves Douglas burning with futile anger. The way Victor refers to the cabin crew is vile – Douglas is a connoisseur of a pretty face but not like _that_ – and Douglas certainly won’t be telling Victor about Martin.

The culmination came after Victor had dropped by his house one evening, ostensibly to return a gift for Helena that Douglas had left in Gerti’s flight deck but, Douglas suspected, more to pry into where Douglas lived. He’d ignored Douglas’ pointed glare and introduced himself to Helena as Douglas’ captain and – Douglas closes his eyes briefly at the memory – it had all gone downhill from there. Fairness compels him to admit that lying to his wife was a route he shouldn’t have started down in the first place but even so: the events of that evening meant that Douglas’ dislike of the man had hardened into an icy hatred of him.

Yet other airlines aren’t in any hurry to hire a pilot who’s been fired for smuggling, and so Douglas is stuck where he is, for now.

At last, when Douglas has visited the bank and posted a parcel to his daughter and browsed his favourite second-hand bookshop and can’t put it off a moment longer, he gets into his car and drives out to the airfield.

It’s cheering to see that Victor’s little Fiat isn’t parked in its usual spot, though, and Douglas pulls up and hopes that he’s actually doing this flight alone and Carolyn forgot to tell him. It’s only a short cargo hop across to Spain, and so Douglas has allowed himself to wear a pair of cords and a more comfortable shirt than his uniform one; Victor will make pointed remarks about professionalism but Douglas will be damned if he’s sitting there in full uniform to fly a bunch of boxes on a short hop across the Channel.

However upon entering the portacabin he gets the shock of his life, for standing by the far wall, idly perusing the wall chart, is a familiar figure.

“Martin!”

Martin whirls round, his eyes wide, and his mouth falls open at the sight of Douglas.

“Douglas! What… what are you–”

“I work here,” Douglas says, walking over to Martin. He stands just a little too far inside Martin’s personal space, and is gratified to see that Martin doesn’t step back but rather leans forward fractionally. “Have done for several years now. Surely the question should be what are _you_ doing here? I didn’t think MJN generated enough paperwork to warrant Carolyn hiring someone to deal with it.”

“Oh God, no, you’ve got it wrong,” Martin says quickly. “I’m not here for that, I’m actually… um…”

“Yes?”

Douglas tilts an eyebrow encouragingly, licking his lips and thrilling inwardly at the way Martin’s gaze drops to his mouth and lingers there.

“Have you come to keep me company on the flight?” Douglas purrs, in his best voice, and Martin swallows hard as the faintest tinge of pink creeps up his throat.

“I. Um…”

“Afternoon Douglas! Oh. And good afternoon to you too, Martin.”

Martin leaps away from Douglas like a scalded cat as Douglas takes a hasty step backwards, and Arthur bounds inside the portacabin, Carolyn following behind at a more sedate pace.

“Hullo Arthur,” Douglas says, instinctively wanting to draw Arthur’s attention to himself and away from Martin, to give Martin some time to pull himself together. “How are things? Isn’t Victor coming today?”

“Er. No.” Arthur’s brightness dims fractionally. “Victor… doesn’t work here any more.”

“What? Since when?”

“Since the end of the last trip,” Carolyn says, shutting the door behind her and crossing to sit at what is now apparently Victor’s old desk. “He came to me and demanded a salary raise; when I told him we couldn’t” afford it he got rather unpleasant.” She snorts, a dangerous gleam in her eyes. “I don’t care if we are an airdot, “m not going to be spoken to like that. So I fired him.”

“You told me he left,” Martin blurts. It’s the first words he’s said since they’ve entered, and Douglas is relieved to see his colour is somewhat back to normal.

“He did leave,” Carolyn smiles, although it looks more like a mere baring of teeth. “I told him it was that or be fired.” She holds out a hand in Martin’s direction and tells Douglas: “Meet your new captain. Martin Crieff.”

“ _Captain_?” Douglas exclaims. “But–”

He cuts himself off before he can continue. _But he looks nothing like a captain._

It’s perfectly true, of course, but that’s not something anyone wants to hear on their first day at work; especially not Martin, when Douglas remembers how nervous and excited he was in the café.

“Pleased to meet you,” he says instead, crossing the room to shake Martin’s hand for the second time that day. “Douglas Richardson.”

“Hullo,” Martin says awkwardly. Douglas can tell already that he’s going to be _appalling_ at any sort of deception, but after Helena carrying on behind his back for months he can’t pretend that that’s not a refreshing change.

“Martin was supposed to have an interview with us last year,” Carolyn says behind Douglas’ back. He lets go of Martin’s hand but doesn’t turn to face her, still watching Martin. “But he didn’t make it for some reason or other, and I ended up hiring Victor instead.”

“Because your van broke down,” Douglas says to Martin, pieces clicking into place, and Martin nods.

“Yes,” says Carolyn, sounding startled. “Yes, that was it – how on earth did you know that?”

Martin darts a panicky look at Douglas, shielded from Carolyn’s line of sight by Douglas’ shoulder, and Douglas knows without being told that nothing said earlier today is to be referred to here.

“Oh, Arthur told me at the time,” Douglas says carelessly, turning and keeping his body mostly in front of Martin. “I remembered it because it made me think that so few people think of checking their cars before leaving for a job interview.”

“I _did_ check it,” Martin says indignantly from behind him, and this looks like the start of a really promising debate until Carolyn claps her hands briskly and says, “Right, introductions over. Douglas, this is Martin; Martin, Douglas. Now: Martin, flight plan. Douglas, go and oversee the loading of the cargo.”

And Douglas goes. It looks as though this flight is going to be infinitely more enjoyable than anticipated.

***

The next time Douglas has Martin to himself, twenty thousand feet up, he finds that he doesn’t need to say anything at all, merely looks at Martin and raises an eyebrow.

Martin’s take-off had been good, if a little bumpy, which Douglas ascribes to his nerves at being scrutinised while doing it. And Douglas _was_ scrutinising him – Martin was taking all their lives in his hands with this – but despite his nerves Martin seemed to relax once Gerti’s wheels left the runway, taking to her as though they were old friends.

Martin doesn’t turn his head to meet Douglas’ eyes but his ears redden tellingly, until eventually he blurts out “Go on, say it.”

“Say what?” Douglas is careful to sound nothing but polite; he doesn’t quite know what’s going on here and vows to have the full story out of Martin, but Martin is already on the defensive so he’ll have to tread carefully.

“Whatever you’re going to say. I know I’m ridiculous.”

Douglas frowns instantly. “I wasn’t going to say anything of the sort. But I am rather puzzled. You said earlier that you were doing an unpaid internship, and yet here you are–”

“She isn’t paying me,” Martin spits out in a rush, as though he’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve.

Douglas falls silent.

“I’ve been making my living as a man with a van, alright? And when Mrs Knapp-Shappey called me up–”

“Carolyn.”

“What?” Martin is distracted mid-flow.

“Carolyn. She’ll not thank you for calling her Mrs Knapp-Shappey; she says it reminds her too much of her ex-husband’s mother.”

“Alright then.” The digression seems to have calmed Martin slightly; he continues in a slightly calmer tone: “She called me up last week, said she’d kept my details on file and that there might be an opening if I still wanted it. For the first officer’s post.” Martin flicks a glance at him and swallows nervously.

“I said yes. She warned me that the salary was low compared to other airlines but I didn’t care, I just wanted the job. And I suppose… oh, I don’t know. I must have agreed too easily, or something, because she asked me how much I’d accept for the captain’s job. And I mean… _captain_.”

Martin’s voice trails off before he looks at Douglas anxiously. “But she made it sound as though you were _both_ leaving, I didn’t realise that I might be treading on your toes. Otherwise I wouldn’t have… I mean, I’d never have _dreamed_ of–” 

“It’s fine.” Douglas dismisses his stumbling excuses with a wave. “Don’t worry about it. So what happened in the end?”

“Well.” Martin swallows, and looks down at his hands. “We agreed, after a while, that I’d take the captain’s post but that she… wouldn’t pay me anything. At all.”

“Nothing?” Douglas echoes. “But how are you going to… well… manage? How will you get by?”

“I’ll be fine.” Martin’s chin lifts proudly. “I’ve got my van. I just… never intended for anyone to know. I was going to be all, oh I don’t know. Professional, I suppose. I was going to show you that I could be a proper captain even though I’m a bit young for it. And now I’ve gone and spoiled it.”

“If you’d just said something this morning,” Douglas says, half to himself. “If you’d mentioned that you were joining a charter plane company then I’d have twigged straight away; Fitton isn’t exactly an international hub.”

“Of course I wasn’t going to say anything,” Martin snorts. “Whoever heard of an airline captain who shifts furniture to make a living? And I definitely wasn’t going to say anything to _you_.”

Douglas pounces on that.

“Why not to me?” he says, although he suspects he already knows the answer, and Martin reddens betrayingly.

“Well, I just meant when you were… it was… nice just talking to you,” Martin says feebly.

_Because you were chatting me up_ , hangs unspoken in the air between them.

Douglas doesn’t respond directly. Instead he glances at Martin and says, “You know, even if Carolyn had offered me the captain’s job I don’t think I’d have taken it. Do you know why?”

Martin shakes his head, frowning faintly at him.

“Because,” Douglas says, letting his voice deepen into something more intimate, “as first officer you can get away with things that simply wouldn’t do for a captain.”

He gives Martin an appreciative look, relying on Martin’s mind to take him the rest of the way there, and is nothing short of delighted when Martin clears his throat and takes a drink of water with an unsteady hand. This isn’t at all how he’d imagined meeting the charming young man from the coffee shop again but it’s not _bad_ , and Douglas says lightly “So, Captain. What other books can you think of that sound better without their final letters?”

Martin thinks for a moment.

“My Fair Lad,” he says triumphantly, after a pause, and when Douglas raises a suggestive eyebrow he goes positively _scarlet_.

“I mean, um…” Martin fiddles with the flight deck controls. “I… films are okay too, yes? I sort of… assumed…”

Douglas has to restrain himself from grinning wildly. Definitely not bad at all.


	3. Chapter 3

That night, in the grotty little hotel that Carolyn has arranged for them, Douglas takes a keener interest in everyone’s dinner plans than he usually does, although naturally he’s subtle enough about it that it’s indistinguishable to anyone else.

Previously they’ve all tended to do their own thing; Douglas wouldn’t have minded going for dinner with Carolyn and Arthur but there was no way to do it without Victor, and Douglas found that a flight in the man’s company was about all he could tolerate.

Now that Martin is here – and seems perfectly nice – Douglas suspects that group dinners are going to become more of a regular occurrence but for this, Martin’s first trip, Arthur is desperate to visit a particular restaurant he’s sure he remembers from a previous trip but that might take a bit of a hunt to track down. Carolyn invites Martin and Douglas to join them but Douglas, having a good idea of how long “a bit of a hunt” is likely to be in Arthur’s terms, gracefully declines. Martin chooses to stay behind also, and Carolyn and Arthur have barely left before Douglas turns to Martin and says, “If you fancy dinner somewhere that doesn’t involve an hour’s trek as navigated by Arthur then I know of a nice little place not far from here.”

He tries not to sound over-eager but shrugs artlessly and says, “But of course if you’re too tired then I’m sure the room service is also passable.”

“No. No, I…” Martin bites his lip briefly. “Dinner would be, um, lovely. Thank you.”

Surely Martin doesn’t realise how close he’s standing, or what it’s doing to Douglas when Martin looks at him like that, his tie off and collar loosened and his hair messed out of its neat order.

“Marvellous,” Douglas says, still trying hard to keep his casual tone. “I’ll come and call for you in about half an hour, then?”

“Yes.” Martin ducks his head and smiles. “That sounds good.”

***

Douglas takes extra time getting ready that evening. He had thought he was going to be spending the evening here with Victor which means that he’s brought a comfortable old pair of pyjamas and his book, packing for an evening in the hotel room with room service, and no smart trousers or shirts.

But as luck would have it he’s brought a spare clean shirt for tomorrow’s flight back and he hangs it up while he showers so that the steam will drop some of the creases from it. He shaves afterwards, and uses lotion so that his skin will be soft: should he be lucky enough to get a goodnight kiss at the end of the evening then Martin’s skin is so fair that Douglas would bet he’s the sort who would get beard burn terribly easily.

He even digs the tiny, rarely used tin of hair product out from the bottom of his toiletries bag. Douglas doesn’t consider himself an excessively vain man, but nor has he ever hesitated to make use of all available tools when engaged in the delicate dance of seduction, and he also dabs on a touch of aftershave. Nothing too grossly overpowering, just a trace. Just enough so that Martin will only be able to smell it once he’s up close.

Before leaving the room, Douglas considers himself critically in the mirror. Not a bad show, for no warning or chance to pack strategically. The vast majority of it is down to confidence, anyway, and that Douglas can provide. He lifts his chin and squares his shoulders, and goes to knock on Martin’s door.

Martin, judging form his expression when he opens the door, doesn’t think there’s anything lacking in Douglas’ appearance at all, and Douglas leans against the doorframe and drawls, “Good evening,” in the deepest, most insouciant voice he can muster.

“H-hello,” Martin stumbles, his eyes meeting Douglas’ briefly before sliding down his body, and inwardly Douglas crows in triumph.

He slouches – trying for casual – but not too much, because he loves that he’s the tiniest bit taller than Martin, and murmurs, “Would Sir be interested in accompanying my humble self to dinner?”

The mock-formality of it raises a smile from Martin, and he stops staring none-too-subtly at the loosened collar of Douglas’ shirt and says, “Yes, I’m almost ready. Just let me find my shoes.”

Martin retreats back into his room and Douglas follows, glancing around. It’s more or less identical to his and anonymous in the way of cheap hotel rooms the world over, with a few rings missing from the curtain rail and a chip out of one side of the mirror.

“Hardly Claridge’s,” Douglas says, glancing into the tiny bathroom and seeing a plastic disposable razor and a bottle of aftershave out by the sink. It seems that similar preparations might have been going on in here also, and Douglas looks at Martin’s hair curling damply at his nape as Martin sits on the bed and leans over to tie his shoelaces. “That bedspread has certainly seen better days.”

“Has it?” Martin’s voice is muffled where he’s leaning over, but he sits up and looks critically at it. “I hadn’t noticed; I was too excited about the novelty of having a double bed.”

Douglas latches on to this instantly, greedy for details about Martin’s home life. “Really? Do you not have one at home?”

“No, just a single.” Martin’s eyes slide away from Douglas’ and he fusses over collecting his wallet and room key. “You look, um. Nice. That shirt. It’s… nice.”

“Thank you,” Douglas says gracefully, subtly putting his shoulders back and standing straighter instead of teasing Martin for his ineloquence as he so dearly wants to do. Perhaps when they know each other better. “As do you.”

Martin is in jeans, and a shirt that’s seen rather a lot of washings, judging by its worn cuffs, but the soft grey of it sets off his eyes and hair rather well. Clearly bought years ago and brought out for every smart occasion since then.

“What, this?” Martin brushes his shirtfront self-consciously. “Thanks. I didn’t realise that you all went out for dinner. I almost didn’t bring anything but my pyjamas; I thought that I’d just be having room service.”

While Douglas is distracted by thoughts of Martin in his pyjamas, curled up snug and warm in the centre of the large double bed with room for someone else at his side, Martin scoops up his wallet and says, “Done.”

He comes to stand next to Douglas, who says, “Marvellous,” and walks over to swing the door wide, stepping back to allow Martin to precede him. “After you.”

The lift down to the ground floor is crowded, but certainly not enough to justify how closely Martin stands to Douglas. His back is to Douglas’ front as he steps back to allow more people in; there are only a few inches between them and Douglas inhales subtly to catch the soft, clean scent of Martin’s hair. If they were a couple then this would be the moment to settle his hands on Martin’s hips, perhaps drop a kiss on the fine hairs across Martin’s nape, but Douglas keeps his hands firmly to himself and counsels himself to patience.

A single bed, coupled with the current lack of a partner, would indicate that Martin doesn’t have a particularly active sex life. It could be that he’s going home with a different man on a weekly basis – and even the thought of Martin with a string of faceless men makes something squirm uncomfortably in the pit of Douglas’ stomach – but given Martin’s general demeanour then Douglas strongly doubts it.

Outside the night air of Barcelona is mild and he and Martin fall easily into step as they walk.

“So where is this place?” Martin asks, shoving his hands in his pockets and glancing over at Douglas.

“Not far. But before we get there, let’s settle that I’m getting this.”

“Oh no, you can’t,” Martin protests at once. “I couldn’t possibly let you–” 

“I’d like to,” Douglas says firmly. “Obviously we can split it if it’s going to make you uncomfortable but firstly,” he ticks the point off on his fingers, “you’re a new member of staff and can consider it a sort of ‘welcome to MJN’ dinner and secondly, as I said over coffee this morning, _someone_ ought to take you out to dinner to celebrate your first day in a new job. Admittedly I hadn’t thought when I said it that that would end up being _me_ , but I’m certainly pleased that it is.”

He smiles at Martin, and Martin slowly returns it. “Well, if you’re sure…”

“I really am,” Douglas says swiftly. “Now then. I’ve been considering the matter under discussion in the flight deck earlier and have come to the following conclusion.”

Martin’s brows had drawn together slightly at the seriousness of Douglas’ voice, but by the time Douglas has finished listing the half-dozen absurdly truncated film titles he thought of while he was getting ready, Martin is laughing.

“Excellent.” He grins at Douglas, easy and open. “I think you win that one. I’ll have to get better.”

Douglas is debating a vaguely suggestive remark concerning prizes and the collection thereof, when Martin glances at him and adds, “You’re not… this really wasn’t how I expected my first day to go.”

“I’m fairly sure that no-one’s first day is quite as expected.” Douglas has certainly had his share of bizarre first days.

“Well, yes. But I meant that it’s all so much more… relaxed than I thought it would be. I’d thought things would be stricter.” He darts another glance at Douglas. “I’d even thought that I might insist that the first officer called me ‘Sir’.”

It’s too good an opening to miss, and Douglas is completely unable to stop himself.

“Why _Sir_ ,” he purrs lasciviously, and Martin instantly bites his lip. “I had no idea you were into that sort of thing. Can’t say it’s something I’ve ever tried myself, but then they do say it’s always the quiet ones–”

“No, no, no… _God_ , just stop.” Martin is torn between laughing and looking as though he wants the ground to open up and swallow him, and covers his face with his hand. “Please stop, I didn’t mean… I wasn’t implying that… just–”

“Stopping.” Douglas grins, holding his hands up in mock-surrender. Martin’s ears are scarlet and the part of his face that Douglas can see around his hand is deeply flushed.

“I’m not sure I could have managed it, having met you previously,” Douglas continues thoughtfully. “Once you’ve watched someone almost tip coffee all over themselves – and in their old clothes to boot – then it’s difficult to think of them as ‘Sir’. And I think I like this way rather better. Don’t you?”

“Yes.” Martin smiles at him again, cheeks still pink, and Douglas wants to reach out and touch him so much that he has to shove his hands in his pockets.

It’s actually a terribly good thing that they met when they did. Douglas has never responded well to people trying to wield their authority over him, and if his first impression of Martin had been an officious person demanding to be called “Sir” then he doesn’t imagine they would have hit it off very well. Much nicer to know Martin as the awkward young man who’d almost dropped his coffee through trying to do too many things at once, and who’d looked absurdly grateful when Douglas had offered him a seat.

The restaurant isn’t much farther away, and the subject is let fall. Douglas offers Martin the choice of other places along the street but, after a desultory glance at a few other menus, Martin declares he’s happy with Douglas’ choice.

It’s all so astoundingly _easy_. A full afternoon and evening is longer than Douglas ever imagined he would want to spend in someone’s company on a first date, but the conversation flows almost effortlessly between them. Martin doesn’t correct the waiter when he assumes that Martin is Douglas’ date, and when Douglas orders fruit juice Martin follows suit, doubtless assuming that Douglas is merely being extra conscientious about his alcohol intake before tomorrow morning’s flight. Douglas is happy to let that assumption stand, for now; there’ll be time enough later to come clean about his less than illustrious relationship with alcohol but not now, when he’s trying to charm Martin.

And Martin proves very easy to charm.

Douglas translates some of the menu for him, since the attempts on the menu are a bit hit-and-miss, and subtly directs Martin’s attention to the more expensive dishes, since Martin strikes him as being exactly the sort of person who orders with one eye on the price.

“But to be honest,” Douglas says, leaning forward and smiling a little when Martin mirrors him, as though they’re conspirators, “I’d go for the menu of the day.”

He nods at the large blackboard on the wall behind Martin. “That will be whatever the chef decided looked good at the market this morning.”

“Alright.” Martin closes his menu and smiles at Douglas. “Then I’ll have that.”

They order, and once the waiter has whisked their menus away Douglas leans his forearms on the table again and tries to draw Martin out. He’s desperately curious about Martin’s home life: where does he live? Does he have a flatmate? Where did he go to flight school?

But Martin refuses to be drawn, at least on anything not pertaining to aviation where he’s slightly more forthcoming. He sips at his water and stumbles over his words and not-so-subtly turns the conversation back around to Douglas, and Douglas doesn’t push him. He privately wonders, if he hadn’t bumped into Martin in the café this morning, how long it would have taken Martin to get up the nerve to admit how he makes his living. Or if he would _ever_ have admitted it, rather than just brazening it out.

Douglas tells Martin stories about MJN, about disgustingly wealthy rugby fans with a passion for the Six Nations, and irate American passengers, and playing cricket with the Scottish cricket team under Gerti’s wing. Martin laughs in all the right places in his stories, and Douglas grins at him. The warmth of the little restaurant has brought a flush to Martin’s cheeks and his hair has fallen out of the carefully combed order that it was in upon leaving the hotel. It suits him awfully well, and Douglas has to remind himself once or twice not to stare too hawkishly at him.

At the end of the meal, once they’ve finished their desserts and are lingering over coffee, Martin takes a sip of his cappuccino and comes away with a dab of foam clinging to one side of his upper lip.

“You have…” Douglas swipes a thumb across his own mouth, indicating what the problem is, and Martin makes a couple of passes but they’re on the wrong side of his mouth and the foam remains obstinately stuck where it is.

“Come here,” Douglas says, and before he can consider the wisdom of it he leans forward and swipes gently across Martin’s warm mouth with his thumb, showing him the dab of foam before licking it away.

Then his brain catches up with him and he pulls his hand back quickly, discomfited. Martin’s eyes are wide and Douglas reminds himself sharply that they’ve not yet known each other twenty-four hours; he’s not a man given to flights of fancy but he can’t shake the persistent feeling that they’ve known each other for longer than a mere day.

“Sorry,” Douglas says quickly. “That was rather forward of me. But you didn’t seem to be quite–”

“No, no, it’s fine. Um, thank you.” Martin touches his own mouth briefly and Douglas has to glance away and take a drink of coffee, uncharacteristically flustered and more than a little aroused.

Martin yawns, suddenly, and covers his mouth with his hand in embarrassment.

“Oh goodness, sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”

“Well, it has been rather a long day,” Douglas says, glancing at his watch. “Shall we head back?”

“Yes, I think so.” Martin smiles gratefully. “After all, you’re operating back tomorrow.”

“Me?” Douglas snorts slightly. “I’m fine. I could fly on no sleep and a raging hangover if it came to it, and–”

He bites down on the end of that sentence: _and it wouldn’t be the first time, either_.

Martin doesn’t need to know about that, but he’s watching curiously. “And?”

“And let’s see where our waiter has got to,” Douglas finishes smoothly. He turns in his seat and fortunately their waiter is hovering nearby, and nods at Douglas’ signal. They’re one of only a few couples still left in the restaurant; it’s getting late and Douglas isn’t sure where the time has gone.

Outside the restaurant, as they turn their steps back towards the hotel, Martin thanks him shyly and Douglas responds as best he can, charmed anew. The walk back is easy and companionable and Martin, after a while, says, “I can’t believe I only met you this morning.”

It echoes what Douglas was thinking earlier but, just to tease Martin, he drawls, “Because the day feels like it’s dragged on forever.”

“No!” Martin bumps him with his shoulder. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. You’re just so… easy to talk to. Usually I get a bit flustered when I’m on a dat– Um. When I meet new people.”

Douglas glances at him but Martin won’t meet his gaze. If they were a couple then this would be the point at which he’d rest his hand in the small of Martin’s back, or slide an arm around his waist to pull him close, and he has to remind himself sharply that he has no right to such an intimacy.

All too soon they’re inside the hotel, and waiting for the lift. Inside it Douglas is acutely aware of Martin next to him, and of the fact that this time they have it to themselves and hence there’s really no excuse for how close they’re standing. They dawdle along the corridor to their rooms and don’t stop talking until they reach Douglas’ door.

Douglas wouldn’t dream of _expecting_ anything merely because he paid for dinner, but he wouldn’t turn down a goodnight kiss from Martin and he does his best to keep Martin’s attention on him as they walk.

“So,” Martin says, leaning against the doorframe and in no apparent hurry to get to his own room.

“Mmm.” Douglas leans against the other side, mirroring Martin’s posture. He tosses the room key idly in his cupped fingers and adds, “Would you like to come in for a coffee?”

Martin gives him a narrow look. “We’ve just had coffee.”

“Would you like to come in for another one?” Douglas amends.

“I didn’t know the hotel provided tea and coffee facilities. I’m fairly sure I didn’t have any in my room.”

But Martin is smiling faintly, looking amused, and Douglas says, “Would you like to come in and find out?” confident that when he unlocks the door then Martin will follow him.

Martin does, and closes the door behind himself as Douglas goes to turn the lamp on, its soft light more appealing than the stark overhead bulb. He catches Martin in the act of giving his room the same sort of once-over that Douglas was giving Martin’s room earlier; Martin realises he’s been caught and, flustered, points out “You’re sleeping on the side farthest away from the bathroom. That doesn’t make any sense.”

Douglas’ reading glasses and book are indeed laid out ready on the nightstand on the far side of the bed, and Douglas shrugs. “I’ve always had the left side of the bed, what can I say. Old habits, and all that.”

“Really?” Martin sounds fascinated. “I’ve never thought of having a side, I usually just sleep in the middle. When I have a double, that is.”

“Hmm. And I bet you steal all the covers too,” Douglas says, mock-disapproving, and Martin bristles – “I do nothing of the sort!” – before realising he’s being teased and subsiding with a grin.

“Anyway,” he says, looking around. “Where are these fabled tea and coffee facilities?”

The lift of his eyebrow shows that he’s perfectly aware of their absence, and Douglas comes back over to him and says, “I must have got confused. Oh dear. Terribly sorry to disappoint.”

But Martin steps towards him, almost unconsciously, and doesn’t look disappointed at all.

“Probably just as well,” he says softly, fiddling with a cuff before shoving his hands in his pockets. “I wouldn’t want to be up all night, not if we’re flying tomorrow.”

“Mmm.”

While Douglas is trying to drag his mind out of the gutter enough to come up with a polite response to the idea of keeping Martin up all night, he notices a loose eyelash that has fallen and sits, a tiny unclosed parenthesis, high on Martin’s cheekbone.

“Hold still,” he tells Martin, before licking his fingertip and dabbing gently at the eyelash. “Eyelash.” He shows it to Martin on his fingertip and adds, “You should make a wish.”

Martin glances up at him before pursing his lips to blow it away; Douglas certainly knows what _he’s_ wishing for but the initiative has to come from Martin. Douglas has made his interest clear – for goodness’ sake, the eyelash thing is one of the oldest tricks in the book – and he can’t go any further. He couldn’t bear it if Martin felt pushed into something he wasn’t sure about.

“Douglas…” Martin licks his lower lip nervously, a quick dart of tongue, and Douglas bites the inside of his cheek. They’re close enough that Martin’s breath tickles his cheek, and Martin swallows visibly before saying “Um. I… oh God, I’m terrible at this sort of thing and I don’t want to offend you and if I’m wrong then I’m going to feel like such an idiot and I really, _really_ apologise but I… can I… kiss you?”

“Martin,” Douglas rumbles at him, “I must be losing my touch if you’re not able to tell that the one thing I would like, above all things, is for you to kiss me.”

He rests a hand on Martin’s waist – firm but not grabbing at him – as Martin leans in, closing his eyes, and brushes his lips softly, hesitantly, against Douglas’.

Douglas gives an approving noise and, when Martin draws back slightly, leans forward to return Martin’s kiss. He presses slightly harder, moving his mouth softly against Martin’s, and Martin’s lips part under his. Martin kisses slowly, almost uncertainly, and that’s fine, Douglas is more than willing to go at his pace. But a moment later Martin’s tongue touches his lips in a fleeting brush and Douglas’ hand tightens on his waist as he inhales sharply.

Martin gives a muffled noise into his mouth and Douglas stops, pulls back far enough to see Martin’s face.

“Alright?”

“Fine.” Martin’s pale skin is flushed slightly, and he sounds breathless. “Just… um…” He covers Douglas’ hand with his own, shifts it from his waist down to his hip. “There.”

“Are you ticklish?” Douglas asks, splaying his fingers greedily over the shallow curve of Martin’s hip.

“Just, um, just a little.” Martin ducks his head, licking his lips slightly and Douglas is captivated.

He slides his other hand up to cradle Martin’s nape and Martin lifts his chin, clearly wanting another kiss. Douglas gives it to him, and this time he’s bolder: he licks at Martin’s teeth, hand sliding around to cup his jaw and thumb stretching to coax Martin’s mouth open wider. Martin makes another sound in his throat but this time, instead of pulling back, his arms go around Douglas and his hands clutch fistfuls of Douglas’ shirt, and Douglas cups Martin’s head in his hand and kisses him harder. He nibbles at Martin’s lower lip, biting gently in an attempt to see if this is something Martin likes. This doesn’t go down terribly well, but kissing him deeply and then pulling back to tease him with soft, shallow nibbles that barely dip past his open lips make him surge forwards, pressing against Douglas and sliding a hand into Douglas’ hair in a demand for more.

It also has the delightful effect of pushing their hips flush against each other, and there’s a familiar pressure against Douglas’ hip that tells him how much Martin is enjoying this. He gives into temptation and, at last, lets the hand on Martin’s hip slide around and down until it’s planted squarely on the curve of his arse. Douglas grips firmly, making Martin’s fingers tighten in his shirt, and guides him gently so that their erections push against each other through their trousers. He’s not quite all the way hard yet but he’s getting there, and Martin’s breath hitches as his hips push forwards. The hand in Douglas’ shirt drops lower to catch hold of his belt, and at the first deliberate thrust of Douglas’ hips Martin actually _moans_ into his mouth, his knees quivering under him and making Douglas tighten his grip on Martin’s arse to keep them both standing.

He takes his hand off Martin’s jaw – reluctantly – and presses it to the small of Martin’s back, before gently tugging Martin’s shirt out of his trousers and stroking his fingertips across the bare skin of Martin’s lower back.

Douglas is old enough and experienced enough to know that a goodnight kiss at the end of a date – even one as enthusiastic as this – doesn’t necessarily mean that the giver will be up for anything more. But at the touch of Douglas’ fingers Martin takes his hand out of Douglas’ hair and slides it between them to fiddle with Douglas’ shirt buttons, loosening the top one and pushing his hand inside to stroke along Douglas’ collarbone, and Douglas starts to wonder whether the old box of condoms buried at the bottom of his toiletries bag – a relic of his pre-Helena days – is still in date. Even if it’s not, or if Martin isn’t up for anything that will warrant condoms, it’s no matter. He’d be happy even if Martin wanted nothing more than reciprocal hand jobs and snogging, and as Martin loosens a second button of his shirt Douglas makes an approving noise into his mouth and slides his hand higher.

“I’m sorry it took so long to find, Mum! I was sure it was down that street.”

Arthur’s voice sounds as though he’s practically in the room, and Martin jumps out of Douglas’ embrace and skitters back. Douglas jumps too, on reflex, before realising what’s happening and laughing a little at himself: Carolyn and Arthur are returning from dinner and the hotel they’re staying in is cheap enough that sound travels straight through the doors and walls. He looks at Martin and holds a finger to his lips and Martin nods, still looking wild-eyed but at least less like he’s considering diving out of the nearest window.

It’s almost comical, really: they look for all the world like a pair of guilty teenagers rather than full-grown men and Douglas smiles at Martin, inviting him to share the joke. Martin’s answering smile is a little crooked, though, and once Carolyn and Arthur have said their goodnights and returned to their respective rooms then Douglas approaches Martin.

“I’m fairly sure that’s just taken several years off my life,” he murmurs, and is relieved when this raises a laugh.

“Likewise,” Martin says, but tenses when Douglas reaches for him. “Um, wait a moment.”

The interruption can’t have lasted more than a minute or two, but it’s clearly long enough for second thoughts to have set in.

“I’m not sure that this is such a good idea,” Martin says, taking a few steps back.

Douglas stills. “How do you mean?”

“I mean… well…” Martin licks his lips, face still flushed from kissing, and tugs at his cuffs. “I just…. I mean, we _work_ together, and it’s not very professional, really. And you… I mean, I don’t even know you, not really. And not that there’s anything wrong with that, if we didn’t work together then I’d definitely be, you know, _interested_ in… being a notch on your bedpost, I suppose. But the whole point of a one-night stand is that you never see each other again, isn’t it? You don’t usually have to work together afterwards.”

“A one-night stand?” Douglas echoes.

“Well… yes.” Martin gestures vaguely at the bed, and Douglas’ open shirt. “I mean, this is probably something you do all the time, but I’m not… I don’t think I could do it and then have to face you tomorrow morning and pretend that we didn’t… you know.”

“I see.” Douglas hesitates, before saying “Actually, this is the first date I’ve been on since Helena left.”

“Helena?” Martin says, frowning in puzzlement, and Douglas belatedly remembers.

“My ex-wife,” he admits, starting to do up his shirt; it’s clear that nothing more is going to be happening this evening.

“Your _wife_?” Martin exclaims. A shade too loudly and Douglas motions to him to lower his voice.

“Your wife?” Martin repeats, quieter. “But you told me that you had a…”

He trails off, realisation dawning, and Douglas says, “Exactly. I told you I had a _partner_. I never specified that it was a male partner. And it’s _ex_ -wife, by the way.”

“But I just assumed you were gay.” Martin rubs at his face. “God, how stupid.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Douglas says at once. “Of course you assumed that: it was what I intended you to assume.”

“But _why_?” Martin asks, looking so guileless that Douglas bites back the impatient retort on the tip of this tongue.

“Because,” he says gently, “I was having coffee with a gorgeous young man who had just admitted that he was attracted to men, and I needed a quick way to indicate my similar inclinations without launching into a long and overly detailed explanation in the middle of a crowded café.”

Douglas runs a hand through his hair, settling it in the wake of Martin’s fingers. “I suppose the term would be bisexual, although I’ve never consciously thought of myself like that.”

“Then how do you think of yourself?” Martin asks.

Douglas shrugs. “I don’t. If I like someone then I like them; I’ve never been inclined to analyse it too closely.”

“And you… like me?” Martin asks, and even after the events of the evening he looks uncertain.

Douglas dislikes that look and, to dispel it, he says easily “Yes. Very much.”

“Oh.” If anything Martin actually looks worse, and he blurts out “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lead you on, I shouldn’t have–”

“Nonsense,” Douglas says roundly. “You’ve nothing to apologise for, truly. Everything’s fine.”

“Good.” Martin’s face lightens in relief. “So I’ve not…” he gestures between them, “spoiled things?”

“Not a bit.” Douglas smiles at him reassuringly and Martin smiles back at once, shoulders relaxing.

“Good.” He starts to tuck his shirt in, putting himself back together before saying “I should… probably go.”

“Of course.” Douglas moves to get the door for him. “I’ll see you at breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“Good. And Martin?” Douglas pauses, his hand on the door handle. “Just to say that you might be overestimating Carolyn if you think that she cares about the personal lives of her crew. I’m not trying to change your mind–” Douglas adds quickly, raising his hands in response to the frown he can see gathering, “–no means no, and I respect that. I’m just saying that you might find that MJN isn’t quite as high-powered or rigidly professional as you think.”

“Alright.” Martin nods, not quite meeting his eyes. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Douglas opens the door for him, speaking in a hush so that their voices don’t carry. “Goodnight. Sleep well.”

“You too,” Martin murmurs to him, before leaving.

Douglas shuts the door gently, soundlessly, behind him, and rubs his hand over his face. All things considered, that was the most unexpected day he’s had in a long time. He gets ready for bed quickly, yawning around his toothbrush, but once in bed he shifts position restlessly until he gives up and slides a hand into his underwear. His body is thrumming with unspent arousal and it doesn’t take long to work himself back to full hardness. He brings his hand up to lick his palm and reaches back down, thinking about the delicious curve of Martin’s bum, the softness of his mouth, the hard ridge of his cock in his underwear and the way he’d moaned as Douglas pushed against it… and in almost no time at all Douglas gasps and has to quickly fumble for a tissue from the bedside table to catch the mess.

Relaxed and sated, he drifts pleasantly for a while in the hazy state between sleep and wakefulness. _A one-night stand_ , Martin had said, and _a notch on your bedpost_. Martin is right in that they don’t really know each other, despite the day they’ve had, but as Douglas succumbs to sleep his last thought is what Martin might say if he thought Douglas was looking for more than that.


	4. Chapter 4

At breakfast the next morning Martin looks tired and is slightly awkward around Douglas; Douglas suspects that he’s been lying awake fretting about what passed between them last night and so he makes an effort to be extra blithe and carefree, and Martin slowly comes out of his shell and starts to respond. It helps tremendously when Carolyn and Arthur arrive at the breakfast table, Carolyn with her usual tart greeting and Arthur with a “Morning Douglas, morning Skip.”

“Skip?” Martin looks puzzled. “Who’s that?”

“Well, you.” Arthur looks slightly taken aback. “Short for ‘Skipper’, you know? Because you’re the captain. Do you not want me to call you that?”

Douglas keeps his attention firmly fixed on his coffee but his ears are pricked for Martin’s reply. As, he suspects, are Carolyn’s: Victor hadn’t liked the nickname at all and hadn’t hesitated to tell Arthur exactly what he thought of the idea. But Martin, when he speaks, sounds shy and Douglas looks up to find him smiling hesitatingly at Arthur.

“No, no, that’s fine. Um. Great.” Martin sips at his orange juice. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a nickname before.”

“Brilliant!” Arthur beams at him and Douglas watches Martin blink, caught in the full wattage of Arthur’s smile. Yesterday’s flight had been too short to have much time for chat, and so this is the first real exposure to Arthur that Martin’s had. Douglas picks up his coffee and settles back in his chair. This should be good.

“So, Skip, and I like that I can call you Skip, by the way, that’s brilliant. But I’ve got a question for you. If you had to be a type of pasta… which one would you be?”

Douglas blinks. That’s fairly random even for Arthur, but Martin only leans forward to rest his forearms on the table and appears to consider the question with as much seriousness as though Douglas had asked him which runway he would use at Stansted for a landing with a southeast crosswind.

“Tagliatelle or linguini are nice,” he says, after a pause. “Sort of like spaghetti but with a bit more bite to them. I like the little stars you can get for minestrone, and penne’s alright but it’s a bit boring after a while. Conchigli are good too.” He pauses for a drink of coffee before finishing: “I suppose I’d have to say gnocchi, although they’re not really a type of pasta. They’re like little pillows – all soft and squidgy. I don’t buy them very often but I always enjoy them when I do.”

For the first time since beginning his reply Martin glances over at Douglas; Douglas doesn’t have a chance to compose his expression back into something approaching neutrality before Martin’s mouth twists into something wry and self-deprecating.

“I eat a lot of pasta,” he says to Douglas.

“Wow, Skip!” Arthur sounds impressed. “That’s amazing! You must _really_ it to be eating so much of it!”

Martin holds Douglas’ gaze for a second longer before his eyes slide away and he says evasively “Something like that.”

“Wow. Right. Okay. If I had to pick, I think I’d go for…”

Douglas stops listening. Given how Martin earns his living then he doubts that Martin is living mostly on pasta because he likes it. He looks at the glimpse of Martin’s collarbones where the neck of his shirt gapes open, and thinks about the narrow firmness of Martin’s hips under his palms the previous night, and starts to wonder how soon he can decently invite Martin over for a casual dinner at his flat. One that does not involve pasta in any way, shape, or form.

***

Douglas is willing to admit that he might have been hasty in his initial approach to Martin. True: they’d hit it off more or less immediately, and Douglas had been more attracted to him than he’d been to anyone since Helena left, however attraction and a good first impression didn’t necessarily mean that the acquaintance would stand up under closer inspection.

But after six weeks’ acquaintance Martin is still as appealing as he was on that first afternoon. He’s rather more obsessed with the rule book than Douglas is, but it entertains Douglas no end to wind Martin up until he’s pink with indignation, at which point he usually realises he’s being teased and glares at Douglas, the corners of his mouth threatening to turn upwards. Martin has a deep appreciation for Agatha Christie, and a passable enough knowledge of Hitchcock films to enjoy Douglas’ cabin addresses.

Arthur likes him tremendously, although this is hardly a sterling character reference, since Arthur likes almost everyone. A much better recommendation is the fact that Martin actually likes Arthur in return. He tolerates Arthur’s conversational non sequiturs; at first it’s with a polite bafflement, but after a while it’s with the same sort of fond amusement that one might give to an over-excitable Labrador puppy.

Douglas eventually succeeds in working more details out of him regarding his van business, and is astounded at how little Martin charges.

“What can I do?” Martin shrugs, when Douglas brings it up with him. “I end up cancelling so often that I have to do _something_ to encourage people to hire me.”

He has a point and so Douglas doesn’t push it, but he quietly gets some flyers made up with Martin’s details and is quick to hand them out to friends. The next time Douglas sees Martin, Martin is tired but grins when Douglas asks him how his _other_ job is going.

“Good,” he says. “Really good, actually. I’ve had a bit of a rush on these past few days.”

And Douglas merely smiles and says he’s pleased and keeps silent about the bundle of paper sitting in the glove box of his car.

He doesn’t want Martin to feel obliged to him, and his skin crawls at the idea that Martin might feel somehow bound to sleep with Douglas after what Douglas has done for him. He just _likes_ Martin; he lies his slightly self-deprecating humour, and his tendency to grow flustered during minor upsets while major ones cause him to snap into cold competence. He even likes the slightly off-key humming Martin does when he’s concentrating on something and in a good mood, and the soft curls that have grown just long enough to brush his collar.

If Douglas stops to think about it then he’d be the first to admit that it makes no sense. He’s always preferred his women polished and beautiful, and his men experienced and suave. Anyone less like Martin it would be difficult to imagine but no matter. The heart wants what it wants and Douglas’, for reasons slightly mystifying even to him, wants Martin, and won’t be appeased with any of the other gorgeous cabin crew that Douglas tries to make himself pay attention to. One evening he even goes so far as to stay behind in the hotel bar when Martin and Arthur head off to bed, and saunters over to take a seat at the bar next to a particularly lovely young woman he’d noticed glancing over at them.

Her name is Laura; she’s pretty, and charming, and flirts easily with Douglas, and he tells himself sternly that there’s no reason _not_ to like such a woman. But he finds himself wondering whether Martin has managed to call and reschedule that job he was fretting about on the flight out, and if he could coax Martin into doing ridiculous cabin addresses when they have actual passengers, and when Laura excuses herself gracefully and leaves then Douglas doesn’t mind anywhere near as much as he ought to.

He trudges along the corridor to his room, and he’s fumbling with his door key when the next door along opens and Martin’s tousled head pokes out.

“Oh. Hello,” he says and, astoundingly, flushes. “I, um… thought I heard someone out and about.”

_It’s a hotel: what were you expecting?_ Douglas is careful not to say. Instead he smiles at Martin and says, “Just me,” indulging himself in the thought that perhaps Martin has been lying awake for Douglas coming to bed.

“I thought you were…” Martin emerges far enough to lean on the doorframe, folding his arms a little self-consciously. “I mean I didn’t expect you’d be back tonight. You know.” He gives a little laugh. “Airline pilot, girl in every city, that sort of thing.”

Douglas looks at Martin, at his ruffled hair and his bare, pale feet, toes digging into the cheap hotel carpet.

“Yes. Well. She was charming but… not quite what I wanted.”

Martin’s pyjamas are frayed a little in places from repeated washings, and they look very soft. Martin re-crosses his arms and bites his lip as though he’s going to speak; Douglas ought to encourage him but he’s abruptly weary and hasn’t the heart for it. All he can think is that Martin looks as though he’d be lovely to curl up with. Not even to fuck, just to tuck against his chest – all soft and warm and sleepy – so that Douglas could inhale the clean scent of him as they fall asleep. Goodness, but he’s pathetic. Not content with appreciating Martin’s physical charms, he’s now constructing cosy domestic scenarios in his head, and Douglas nods at Martin and says, “Goodnight,” trying not to sound to gruff, before disappearing into his room.

The next day, on the flight deck, Martin brings it up, to Douglas’ mild surprise. Douglas is still rather out of sorts over the previous evening’s failure to interest himself in someone actually _attainable_ and – while he hasn’t been grumpy, exactly – he’s not gone out of his way to encourage their usual banter.

“Have you thought of… you know. Dating? I mean since Helena’s gone and you just seem… I don’t know. As though it might be something you’d want.”

Douglas arches an eyebrow at the fact of Martin giving _him_ relationship advice; Martin flushes but holds his gaze and Douglas decides to answer.

“Yes, I had. I don’t think I’m really as cut out for the single life as I was in my younger days.”

“Oh.” Martin sounds surprised but rallies quickly. “Well, good, that’s good. And have you, er, met anyone you like?”

He may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, and so Douglas says, “Yes, actually.”

“Oh.” Glancing over, Douglas could swear that Martin looks almost _disappointed_ , but the next instant the fleeting expression is gone. “Right. How are things going?”

“I don’t think they’re going to go anywhere,” Douglas says, making a minor course correction.

As Douglas knew he would, Martin immediately starts to protest. “Don’t say that, you never know what might–”

“I regret to say that in this case I actually _do_ know,” Douglas interrupts. “The gentleman in question has made it clear that it’s not an option.”

There’s utter silence from the other side of the cockpit, and Douglas glances over to see Martin looking rather poleaxed.

“Is that,” he begins cautiously, “you don’t mean–”

“Yes,” says Douglas. “Yes, I do.”

Martin still looks shocked. “Still?”

“Yes,” Douglas sighs. “It’s a bit of a sod, I grant you.”

“Oh _God_.”

Douglas looks over to find Martin’s face, for once, impossible to read; it’s possible that even _Martin_ doesn’t quite know what he’s thinking right now and Douglas is quick to say “It’s nothing you need worry over. You’ve made your feelings perfectly clear on the matter and I respect that, and I’m sure that in time this whole thing will be blown over and forgotten about.”

“I don’t want it to blow over,” Martin blurts, and can’t hold Douglas’ gaze. Douglas examines his profile narrowly as Martin fiddles uselessly with his watch.

“Are you saying…” Douglas begins slowly, “that you’ve changed your mind about wanting this?”

“I never _didn’t_ want it,” Martin confesses. “I just didn’t think it was wise. I still don’t, but I… oh, I don’t know.”

And he looks miserable enough that even Douglas has to admit that while flying a plane really isn’t the best time for this sort of talk.

“Why don’t we talk about it back in Fitton?” he suggests, hope unfurling cautiously in his stomach. “But don’t fret about it, I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Always the optimist.” But Martin is at least smiling now, however faint, and he lets it go.

***

Back in Fitton, once they’ve completed the post-flight paperwork and the taxi has arrived to take them home, Douglas invites Martin in when the taxi reaches his house and Martin accepts. Douglas had fully intended to sit down with a cup of tea and a chat but looking at Martin, fiddling nervously with the stripes on his sleeve, he says instead: “Why don’t we got for a drive?”

“Oh.” Martin looks slightly surprised but, looking at the glorious blue sky and sunshine, is quick to nod. “Yes, that sounds good.”

Douglas lingers only for long enough to dump their bags in his hallway and collect his car keys before shepherding Martin towards the car. He drives them to a spot overlooking the airfield; it’s equal odds as to whether Martin will like the view of all the planes coming in to land or whether he’ll be reminded of all the reasons he initially said they couldn’t do this, but his face lights up and it seems to be the former.

“So…” Douglas turns the engine off and turns in his seat to face Martin.

“Yes.” Martin looks down at his hands. “This is a nice view.”

Douglas smiles. “I’m glad you like it. I come here sometimes, just to sit. There’s something rather soothing about watching them all coming in.”

“Yes,” Martin agrees. But he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to say anything further, and Douglas wonders how long to leave him before nudging him to speak. In the end, though, he doesn’t have to.

“When I turned you down it wasn’t because I didn’t want you,” Martin says, all in a rush. “I just didn’t think that we ought to sleep together if we were working together. It’s not very professional.”

“Well, no,” Douglas agrees slowly, “but I think you’ve seen by now that MJN isn’t really that sort of company. And I’m not the sort of man who likes to drag his personal life into work.”

“No,” Martin says, “no, you’re not. But by the time I realised that then I’d sort of… missed my chance. It seemed a bit presumptuous to assume you’d still be interested.”

“Had you thought I only wanted a one-night stand with you?” Douglas asks.

“Don’t you?” Martin asks, curious. “You were so… I mean, right from the start, and you didn’t even _know_ me, not really, so I assumed it must be. But what you said in Gerti earlier…”

He trails off, looking away uncertainly, and Douglas decides to be blunt.

“Look, I can come on a bit strong when I like someone, it’s a fault of mine. But you mustn’t imagine that I wanted you only for one night. True, I didn’t know you, but I fancied you something rotten and I asked you out to dinner because I was interested in _getting_ to know you. And now that I do, I’d rather like to try.”

The first hint of a smile tugs at Martin’s mouth and so Douglas dares to reach over and take his hand.

“There’s no pressure, you know,” he says, as Martin’s fingers curl around his. “You’re not getting tied into an inescapable contract. If it doesn’t work then it doesn’t work, but we can just… see how it goes.”

Martin doesn’t reply but Douglas doesn’t push him. It’s only been several weeks but already it’s become clear that Martin is the sort who needs to think about things rather than leaping into them headfirst.

“I… well.” Martin’s thumb strokes gently, hesitantly, over the backs of Douglas’ fingers. “Perhaps we could give it a go. Just to see.”

“If you’re sure,” Douglas says, trying his best to sound light-hearted and casual when inside he feels giddy as a teenager, “then I’d like that very much indeed.”

“Alright.” Martin looks away and smiles, his cheeks a little pink but obviously pleased with himself.

“Marvellous.”

Douglas sits there for a moment with what he’ll admit is probably a rather foolish grin, but at last Martin stirs. Douglas was contemplating kissing him but Martin gives his hand a last squeeze before pulling away and Douglas lets him go. Clearly the way forward here is slowly and steadily.

They sit there a while longer, talking of nothing in particular, until Martin reluctantly admits that he has a job booked with his van that afternoon, and Douglas starts the car for the homeward drive.

“Come over for dinner tomorrow night,” Douglas says, when they’re parked in his driveway once more, unfastening his seatbelt in preparation for nipping into the house to grab Martin’s bag.

“What, like a–”

“Yes,” Douglas drawls, unable to hide his smile. “Yes, like a date. A dinner date. Yes?”

“Yes.” Martin smiles at him. “Yes, that sounds great.”

“Good.” And Douglas smiles back, anticipation already coiling low in his stomach.

Only an organised person can afford to have such a devil-may-care public persona without their entire life coming down around their ears, and Douglas is very organised indeed. He starts planning the menu for the following evening’s dinner even as he’s collecting Martin’s bags from his house and driving Martin back to his shared house, easily keeping the flow of conversation going while thinking along a different route entirely.

He ought to cook something that Martin would never make for himself. Something lavish, with ingredients that Martin would never be able to afford on his van’s income, and yet Douglas knows Martin well enough to realise that any show of spending too much time or money on this meal will only discomfit him. So something simple, then.

Or best of all – and Douglas has an entirely justifiable moment of pride as this gem occurs to him – something rather complicated and delicious that has the _appearance_ of being effortless. Douglas smiles. Just his sort of thing.

After dropping Martin off – at the corner of the street, he won’t let Douglas take him up to the door – Douglas makes for the local supermarket, the butcher’s, and then the small Italian-run delicatessen that manages to eke out a living on the outskirts of Fitton.

After consideration of what’s available, Douglas settles on a starter of melon pieces wrapped in Parma ham, with steak and salad to follow: it looks simple, but a meal so unadorned means that the ingredients have to be absolutely flawless, and Douglas takes his time going through the options until he’s satisfied. He also picks up a bottle of some sort of non-alcoholic sparkling grape juice; it isn’t a bit like the real thing but Douglas is old enough to know that’s a road he can’t go down, not any more. But no matter: this meal is most definitely more about the company than the wine list.

***

Martin, when Douglas answers the door to him the following night, does a terrible job of concealing his curiosity as he follows Douglas into his living room. Douglas had cleaned earlier in the day, but he waves away Martin’s shy compliment with an airy “Oh, it’s nothing. Glad you like it.”

He leaves Martin examining his book collection and goes into the kitchen. He got the melon and ham out several hours earlier, to allow them to come to room temperature and their flavours to emerge, and now he starts to slice the melon up. There was no sense preparing it too far in advance, as it would only dry out, and it now gives him something to focus on rather than how nice Martin looks.

“Can I do anything?”

Martin wanders into the kitchen, looking at a bit of a loss, and Douglas says, “Indeed you can, you can tell me what you’d like to drink. There’s–”

“Oh, I brought wine,” Martin exclaims. “Sorry, I forgot to say, let me just go and…”

He hurries off in the direction of the backpack he left in the hall and Douglas sets down his knife and sighs. This wasn’t the point at which he’d foreseen having this conversation but no matter; if this is the moment then so be it. It’s his own fault, really: he ought to have mentioned to Martin that he didn’t need to bring anything.

“Here.” Martin comes back in, clutching a bottle of red wine. “I brought this. If… if you want. I don’t know much about wine, I’m afraid, so I don’t know what’s good and what’s not–”

“Thank you.” Douglas takes the bottle from him gently. “It was very kind of you. Would you like some?”

“I…” Martin frowns at him, ever so slightly. “Only if you’re having some? I… Don’t you like red? Oh God, I should have brought white, shouldn’t I? I just thought that, well, if it ends up being not very good then cheap red is still more or less drinkable but cheap white just tastes like complete and utter cat’s piss, and–”

“it’s _fine_ ,” Douglas says. “Truly. It’s not cheap, this is perfectly fine, I just…” he pauses, but forces himself to say “I don’t drink.”

“At all?”

“At all,” Douglas confirms. “I haven’t for nine years now, in fact.”

He can see the moment it sinks in for Martin, whose eyes widen.

“Oh. _Oh_. Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, I–”

“Of course you didn’t,” Douglas says firmly. “There’s no reason why you should - _I_ certainly hadn’t mentioned it and I doubt if Carolyn or Arthur did.” He’d been about to suggest that Martin take it back with him but Martin looks so mortified that refusing his gift – even with the best intentions – feels like the wrong thing to do. So Douglas sets it on the counter and says, “ _You’re_ still welcome to have some of course, if you like?”

“Oh. Um, no thanks, just juice will be fine.”

“If you’re sure. Then in that case I’ll keep it to one side, if I may? It’ll make a smashing beef bourguignon.”

Douglas goes to the cupboard for glasses, relieved that Martin seems to be taking it more or less okay. People react in different ways to his admission: some of them are shocked, given his profession, and a few are disgusted. But Martin seems to be more embarrassed about the social awkwardness he’s engendered by, all unknowing, giving wine to an ex-alcoholic.

“I thought people only used cheap wine in cooking,” Martin says, and nods when Douglas holds up a carton of apple juice questioningly.

“Only if you want your cooking to taste of cheap wine,” Douglas says smoothly, and sets a glass of juice down in front of Martin.

“Can you honestly tell the difference?” Martin asks sceptically.

“Well,” Douglas says, giving Martin a look bordering on flirtatious, “why don’t you come over when I cook it and let me know?”

“Yes.” Martin smiles at him. “Yes, I’d like that.”

“Marvellous. Cheers.” Douglas touches his glass to Martin’s gently, and drinks.

“So what can I do?” Martin asks, as Douglas returns to peeling and slicing the melon.

“You could put together a salad,” Douglas says. “For starters we’re having Parma ham and melon, then main is steak with a Gorgonzola sauce and salad. Dessert is home-made mango sorbet.”

“Wow.” Martin looks suitable impressed. “That sounds amazing.”

“Oh, well.” Douglas tries to sound suitable casual as he unwraps the waxed paper packet of ham with a flourish. “Just something simple, I thought.”

And Martin rolls his eyes at him with a look that says he sees right through Douglas’ seeming ease, but gets up to wash his hands and retrieve salad ingredients from the fridge.

***

As usual, Martin is very easy to spend time with, and now there’s the added benefit of Douglas not having to suppress any flirtatious remarks if they come to him. They eat the melon and ham with their fingers, the salty chewiness of the ham contrasting wonderfully with the perfectly ripe sweetness of the melon, and by the time Martin has finished his steak he looks almost blissful.

Douglas suggests taking their coffee over to the sofa, and they talk until what Martin is saying is interrupted by an enormous yawn, as he raises his hand to cover his mouth belatedly.

“Oh God, sorry,” Martin says, flushing.

Looking at his watch Douglas is almost surprised to see that it’s late, much later than he’d thought.

“I’d better go,” Martin says reluctantly. “I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

“Of course.” Douglas stands when Martin does, and follows him through to the hallway. Martin retrieves his jacket, patting at his pocket for his keys, and stands fidgeting.

“I… had a really nice evening,” he says, a touch awkwardly. “Perhaps we could do it again?”

“That would be wonderful,” Douglas says, and Martin’s face lightens into a smile.

He’s in no hurry to move away, though, and Douglas steps closer to him and murmurs, “I had a lovely evening too.”

“Good.”

This close he can almost count Martin’s eyelashes, and Martin licks his lips nervously.

“Martin,” Douglas rumbles, his voice very low and his gaze riveted on Martin’s mouth, “can I–”

“Oh, I wish you would,” Martin blurts, and Douglas tilts his head the rest of the way until their mouths connect.

Martin’s mouth is lovelier than Douglas remembers, and he soon finds that one kiss won’t suffice but that he has to go back for another, and another. His hands stay decorously on Martin’s waist, and it’s only when Martin gives a little moan that Douglas lifts his head.

Martin’s face is flushed, his breathing quickened, and Douglas knows with a dizzying rush of certainty that he could have him right now. If he pushed then Martin would allow himself to be pushed; he’d let Douglas lead him to the bedroom and strip him bare and have him.

But the whole point of this endeavour was to demonstrate to Martin that Douglas wants more from him than just a quick tumble in the sheets, and so Douglas steps back with a last soft kiss. He smoothes Martin’s jacket.

“Mind how you go,” he says roughly. “Drive safely.”

“I will.” Martin clears his throat and fusses a little with his jacket, seeming to need a moment before he steps outside. “I’ll… see you at the airfield then?”

“Yes.” Douglas smiles at him, quietly delighted by his discomposure. “Looking forward to it.”

With a last nod, Martin opens the door and leaves, and Douglas lingers long enough to see him drive off before closing the door and leaning against it. As first dates went, he rather thinks he’d call that a resounding success.


	5. Chapter 5

From that point on, Douglas starts to court Martin. He brings Martin coffee, stopping by the café in Fitton to bring stuff that’s infinitely better than the vile brew on offer at the airfield. On flights where he’s operating alone then he’ll leave a little note in Martin’s locker. He brings packets of Jelly Babies on trips, and makes up ridiculous reasons to justify why Martin absolutely _has_ to let Douglas take him out to dinner at intimate little restaurants, and silently revels in the new awareness sparking between them.

With anyone else Douglas would be wary that he was coming on too strong, but Martin strikes him as precisely the sort of doubting type who wouldn’t be sure of someone’s interest unless it was absolutely unmistakeable.

As promised, Douglas invites Martin round for beef bourguignon. The food, naturally, is perfect, and just like before they share a goodnight kiss that’s a hair’s breadth from turning into something more before Martin peels himself away with a reluctance that does wonders for Douglas’ ego.

For the all-important third date, however, Douglas finds himself unaccountably nervous. He changes the sheets, and goes out to buy lube, condoms, and an extra toothbrush. Typically this is the date when he’d expect things to progress further with whoever he was seeing, but given that this is Martin then it’s anyone’s guess as to whether it will happen. But there’s no harm in being prepared.

In the end, Douglas needn’t have worried. Martin arrives looking smarter than usual and also slightly nervous; it’s clear where he’s expecting the evening to go and Douglas is interested by this evidence that Martin isn’t _quite_ as ignorant of dating culture as he sometimes seems.

After dinner, as has become their habit, they leave the washing up and take their coffee over to the sofa to continue their conversation. And, as has also become a habit, Douglas sets his cup aside when he’s barely halfway through it so he can respond to the signals Martin’s giving out about how much he’d like to kiss Douglas.

It’s rather charming that, despite encouragement, Martin won’t reach out and _take_ , he’ll only sit there and watch Douglas helplessly while his cheeks flush and he licks his lips unselfconsciously, until Douglas has to reach out and touch him. At which point it’s a scramble for Martin to put his coffee down without leaning out of Douglas’ touch and without knocking his cup over.

Douglas kisses him firmly, Martin’s mouth soft and already open under his, and Martin’s hands knot themselves in Douglas’ shirtfront as if to hold him in place. Douglas gentles his touch, cupping Martin’s face in his hands to show him he’s not going anywhere but is perfectly happy to sit here and kiss Martin for as long as he wants, and Martin moans a little in his throat. He slides the fingers of one hand through the gap between Douglas’ shirt buttons to touch the hair on his chest, a little shy, and Douglas takes one hand off Martin’s face to loosen a couple of his own buttons and guide Martin’s hand inside. Martin groans again at the feeling of Douglas’ bare skin under his palm, and breaks their kiss to look at where his hand disappears inside the crisp white cotton of Douglas’ shirt.

Douglas’ heart is pounding – just from this, a few innocent kisses on the sofa and the warmth of Martin’s palm against his chest – and Martin shifts his hand over to the left side of Douglas’ chest and Douglas knows he’s feeling it.

“Alright?” Douglas asks gently and Martin stares at him – all pink cheeks and flushed mouth – and nods.

“Good,” Douglas says, and dips his head for another kiss. Martin’s fingertips tighten and press lightly into his skin and Douglas cups Martin’s nape and tilts his head up, breaking their kiss again to nose gently at the pulse point under Martin’s jaw. It flutters faintly under his mouth; Douglas is so absorbed in the tiny flickers of it that it takes him a moment to register that Martin’s soft gasps have turned into _words_ , that Martin is whispering “Touch me, oh God, Douglas, _please_.”

Douglas can’t bear to hear Martin ask like that, as though he thinks it’s something he’s not going to get, and so he pushes his hand under Martin’s shirt to splay on his warm, flat stomach.

He comes back up to kiss Martin as he pushes his hand higher, and as he traces a fingertip down the warm line of Martin’s sternum Martin moans a little. He’s all but squirming against Douglas, and Douglas gives him the slightest little nudge as he suggests, “Why don’t you lie down?”

Martin goes so readily that Douglas suspects he’s just been waiting for an invitation, and he grabs Douglas’ shirt and pulls until Douglas ends up sprawled half on top of him. God, he feels like a giddy teenager again, when kissing with his hand up a girl’s blouse felt like the most exciting thing in the world, and he snogs Martin as thoroughly as he can and at the same time he slides his hand over to brush his fingertips against Martin’s nipple.

Martin jumps at the touch; Douglas murmurs, “Sorry,” as he takes his hand away but Martin grabs at it through his shirt and stops him withdrawing.

“No, I like that,” he says. “You can, um. You can be a bit rougher, if you want.”

Douglas _does_ want: he rubs his thumb hard over the tight rise of flesh, watching Martin’s eyes flutter closed, and leans in to kiss Martin greedily. Martin’s chest rises and falls rapidly under his hand, and when Douglas stops rubbing and pinches Martin’s nipple lightly between thumb and forefinger he moans, almost biting at Douglas’ mouth.

“Can I…” Douglas pulls away, toys with the buttons of Martin’s shirt, “can I see you? Please, I want to–”

“Alright, alright, here, just let me…”

Douglas draws back enough to allow Martin to half-sit up, and together they loosen his shirt buttons and strip it off him. God, he’s gorgeous: pale skin, his nipples drawn tight from Douglas’ touch, and a sparse trail of hair running down from his navel to disappear under the waistband of his jeans.

“Um.” Douglas looks back up to see the first traces of self-consciousness starting on Martin’s face.

“I, um… I’m a bit skinny, I know, I–”

Douglas doesn’t wait to hear more but leans in to kiss him again, letting the weight of his body bear Martin back down to the sofa. Martin goes readily, wrapping his arms around Douglas to grabs at fistfuls of his shirt, and Douglas gives him the _filthiest_ kiss he can manage as he slides a knee between Martin’s thighs. He rubs and teases at Martin’s nipples as he shifts his leg higher, until he can feel Martin’s cock pushing hard against his thigh. Douglas shifts his leg back and forth, a gentle rhythm that Martin’s hips soon pick up, until Martin is making tiny thrusts against his leg and seemingly having trouble breathing.

Douglas leaves off kissing him and dips his head to kiss Martin’s throat again. As he was doing before, save that this time is infinitely better as there’s nothing to stop him kissing his way down and along Martin’s collarbones. And once he’s that far, it’s only a short way to kissing Martin’s nipples.

At Douglas’ first suck on his right nipple, Martin actually grabs at Douglas’ thigh and grinds against it, a loud groan rumbling through his chest. Douglas does it again, and again, wetting his fingers to stimulate the other one, and Martin’s pushes against his thigh grow harder, more purposeful. It’s abruptly frustrating to be able to feel Martin’s cock rigid in his jeans but not to touch it, and Douglas hooks a finger in Martin’s waistband to say “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable if you loosened these?”

The temptation is too much, though, and before Martin can reply Douglas slides his hand lower until he’s cupping Martin through his jeans, rubbing at him a little with the heel of his hand. Martin must surely be uncomfortable, but as Douglas leans up enough to open some space between their bodies Martin’s first act is to reach for Douglas’ shirt buttons.

“Will you take this off?” he asks. “Please? I want to see you.”

Not waiting for a reply, his fingers are already slipping each button free of its buttonhole and Douglas bites his lip in an uncharacteristic flare of nerves. He’s not as young or fit as he used to be; the last person to see him naked was Helena, right before she left him for a younger man. But Martin draws the open sides of his shirt apart with a greedy look, and splays his hands on Douglas’ chest, apparently trying to cover as much of him at once as he can.

To distract Martin, Douglas deftly loosens Martin’s belt, thumbs open the button, and slides the zipper down, prompting a gasp of relief from Martin. Underneath his jeans Martin is wearing a pair of dark blue cotton boxer-briefs. They’re just starting to be wet along the fly, and Martin slides a hand into his underwear, rearranging himself so that his cock is lying upward along his belly rather than awkwardly pushed to one side.

“There,” Douglas says, even as he allows Martin to pull his shirt off his shoulders and toss it to the floor. “Much better.”

Martin only hauls him back down for a kiss, licking and almost biting at Douglas’ mouth, and Douglas kisses him fiercely and thumbs Martin’s nipples and makes approving noises when Martin pulls away to kiss at his neck.

He’s absorbed in the feel of Martin’s ribs arching delicately under his fingers, when Martin makes a despairing sort of noise against Douglas’ shoulder and grabs Douglas’ wrist to shove Douglas’ hand into his open jeans.

Douglas gives an involuntary murmur at the feel of Martin’s cock all hot and hard against his palm, only a thin layer of damp cotton between them, and Martin pants, “Alright?”

“ _Christ_ , yes,” Douglas growls, before kissing Martin again and shoving his hand lower to find the soft weight of Martin’s balls.

Martin moans at this; Douglas is so focussed on him that he almost jumps out of his skin when Martin tugs sharply at his belt.

“Gently,” he says quickly, and props himself up on one arm to help Martin loosen his fly. They manage without further mishap, and Douglas pushes his hand back inside Martin’s jeans and moans at the first clumsy slide of Martin’s hand inside his trousers.

Martin is unable to keep his hips still, and Douglas hooks his finger in the elastic of his underwear and tugs it down just far enough to expose the head of his cock, darkly flushed and wet. Douglas feels a sudden rush of saliva under his tongue at the sight: it’s been a while since he was with another man but he flatters himself that he’s not lost any of his touch. He’s certainly not forgotten how much he likes the weight of a man’s erection in his mouth, but there’s not much he can do without protection and so he only shoves two fingers into his mouth roughly before touching them to the head of Martin’s cock.

“ _Ah_.” Martin’s hips jerk and there’s a little pulse of slick against Douglas’ fingertips; Martin drags him back in for a sloppy kiss even as he curls his fingers around Douglas and strokes him a few times awkwardly through his underwear. Douglas smoothes his fingertips back and forth across the head of Martin’s cock and Martin’s breathing picks up, his hips rocking and making tiny pushes against Douglas’ fingers.

Douglas finds Martin’s ear, kissing it before whispering “Don’t come yet.”

“ _Oh God_.”

Martin grabs at his forearm but makes no move to pull him away, and Douglas continues with the tiny slides back and forth across the head of Martin’s cock, until Martin moans loudly in his ear and tugs his hand away. He’s shuddering, one hand gone slack on Douglas’ cock and the other gripping Douglas’ forearm like a lifeline, and Douglas kisses his forehead, suddenly feeling oddly protective and tender.

“Calm down,” he murmurs. “Not yet. Take deep breaths.”

And Martin takes deep, shaking breaths, until his thighs relax out of their tense splay and he open his eyes to smile at Douglas.

“Been a while, has it?” Douglas says quietly, and Martin nods, biting his lip and looking embarrassed.

“Yes, actually. Not… not _intentionally_ , I just never seemed to meet anyone that I could.. you know…”

“Then let me take you to bed,” Douglas says, freeing his hand from Martin’s clutch to cradle Martin’s jaw possessively and kiss him. “Please. I want to do this properly.”

He kisses Martin’s mouth over and over, as soft now as he was fierce earlier, wanting to drown in his kisses, until Martin is gripping the hair at his nape and murmuring “Yes, _please_ , yes, I want you to.”

Douglas gets off the sofa, not bothering to fasten his jeans, and holds out a hand to Martin. Martin takes it, and Douglas tugs him up off the sofa before leading him through to the bedroom, Martin’s fingers tangled with his. He snaps the bedside lamp on, the soft glow rather more forgiving than the overhead light, and turns to Martin.

Douglas takes Martin’s face in his hands and kisses him softly, tenderly, before pulling back just enough to murmur “I want to make you come _so hard_.”

Martin’s breath stutters against his mouth. “You almost did, just then.”

“Good.”

Douglas nudges Martin away and says, “Strip,” leading the way by sliding his own trousers and underwear off and climbing into bed. Martin follows suit, and Douglas gets his first proper look at Martin’s cock. It’s darkly flushed and rigid; Martin looks hard enough to be uncomfortable, and he moves a little awkwardly as he gets into bed and slides close to Douglas. Douglas immediately wraps him up in his arms and kisses him, hands wandering over Martin’s skin, until Douglas reaches Martin’s groin again and Martin moans into his mouth.

“Alright?” Douglas says gently. He curls his fingers around Martin’s cock and strokes a few times, and Martin’s legs move restlessly as he arches into Douglas’ touch.

“Yes.”

“Sure?”

Douglas’ thumb finds Martin’s foreskin and plays with it idly, pushing it up over the head of Martin’s cock.

“Yes.” Martin’s hands slide clumsily across his belly and hips, and Douglas catches his breath at Martin’s first touch to him.

“Hang on.”

Martin’s cock is damp with precome but it’s not quite enough and Douglas reaches over to his nightstand. He returns with a palmful of lubricant, but when he closes his hand around Martin then Martin makes a pained noise.

“Alright?” Douglas asks again. It can’t be cold – he just spent several moments working it between his fingers to warm it – but Martin pushes his face against Douglas’ shoulder and tenses at the first slow pull of Douglas’ hand on his cock.

“That’s not… I’m not going to last very long if you keep doing that,” Martin blurts. He’s shivering a little, either from cold or nerves or arousal – or some combination of all three – and Douglas tugs the covers up over him on the off-chance that it’s cold.

“And this would be a problem why, precisely?” Douglas asks lazily, experimenting with a twisting stroke around the head that makes Martin’s legs scissor against each other.

“I… I just thought…”

“What if I do this?” Douglas asks, letting go of Martin’s cock and moving to grip Martin’s bum instead. He pushes a thigh between Martin’s and Martin groans, shaking his head.

“Well then,” Douglas drawls, “in that case I may as well go back to this.”

He takes hold of Martin’s cock again, thumbing at the head, and Martin writhes against him. Martin’s cock is hard and slick and gorgeous in his hand and his breath comes quick against Douglas’ mouth; Douglas could lie here like this with him all day but Martin’s eyes are squeezed shut, sweat already starting on his temples, and Douglas takes pity on him and sets up a brisk, efficient stroke that he guesses will get Martin off quickly.

“Oh _fuck_.” A shudder runs the length of Martin’s spine and he buries his face against Douglas’ shoulder as he paws clumsily at Douglas’ hips.

“Don’t worry about me,” Douglas tells him, gently nudging Martin’s hands away when they fumble at his erection. He kisses Martin’s hair. “We can deal with me after; right now I want to focus on you.”

“But you’re…” Martin seems to have trouble breathing, his hips stuttering into the rhythm of Douglas’ hand. “Oh God, you’re going to make me come.”

“ _Good_ ,” Douglas growls, and at the same time he pushes his thumb against the bundle of nerves just under the head of Martin’s cock.

Martin gives an incoherent noise at this, his back arching, and a couple of moments later he rolls onto his back, thighs splaying wide. He’s panting like he’s run a race, snapping his hips up into Douglas’ hand, and Douglas follows him, presses himself against Martin’s side and murmurs in his ear “That’s it. You’re almost there, aren’t you?”

Martin nods, eyes still shut tight, and a hand knots in Douglas’ hair and hauls him in for a kiss. Douglas kisses him hard, licking his way into Martin’s mouth; after a couple of minutes Martin is trembling but doesn’t seem any closer to coming.

“Help me out,” Douglas say. “Come on. Show me how to make you come.” He kisses Martin again, nipping gently at his lower lip. “ _Christ_ , I want to make you come, so much. How do you like it?”

Martin’s hand settles on top of his, squeezing gently.

“Tighter,” he says. Pants, really. “And a… a little faster – oh fuck, yes, like that.”

Martin’s shudders increase and Douglas leans harder against him, wanting to steady him, until Martin sobs, “Oh fuck, _Douglas_ ,” his back arching as his cock starts to pulse in Douglas’ hand. Douglas can’t decide whether he wants to kiss Martin, or watch him, or look down at the sight of Martin’s come streaking their joined fingers: he settles for trying to kiss Martin through it, although all Martin can manage to do is press his open mouth to Douglas’ and half-stifle his moans.

Douglas kisses him anyway, nipping gently at Martin’s mouth before soothing the bites with his tongue, and Martin clutches at Douglas and shudders and comes all over his stomach. Douglas pays close attention to the movements of Martin’s hand on his cock, and the moment Martin’s touch starts to slow then Douglas relaxes his grip, letting Martin dictate the pace. After a short while Martin sighs deeply, his hand falling away from himself, and Douglas kisses him as he takes his hand off Martin’s cock and tangles their slippery-sticky fingers together.

“Hullo,” he breathes into Martin’s mouth, soft and intimate, and Martin’s eyes flutter and open.

“Hello.” Martin smiles up at him, flushed and a little shy, and Douglas rests their hands on Martin’s stomach as he kisses Martin again.

“Mmm.” Martin all but purrs as he turns onto his side to nuzzle closer to Douglas. His kisses are a little clumsy now, clearly post-coital, but Douglas kisses him easily, helplessly captivated by Martin loose-limbed in his bed with evidence of his pleasure smeared across his stomach.

“We need to take care of you,” Martin murmurs, sliding his hand down Douglas’ stomach to where Douglas’ cock is pushing hard against his hip. “It’s your turn now.”

“Oh,” Douglas says. Hardly up to his usual standard, but now that Martin isn’t distracted by pending orgasm his hands are deft and surprisingly confident. “Well, I–”

“On your back.” Martin nudges at him and Douglas goes, unable to deny him. “Perfect.”

Martin sits up and crawls on top of Douglas, propping himself up on hands and knees astride Douglas’ body and dipping down for a brief, teasing kiss.

“Look at you,” Martin purrs at him. His voice has dropped an octave, and the low rumble of it makes Douglas grip Martin’s thighs as a throb of arousal goes through him. Martin smiles at the clutch of Douglas’ hands and settles astride Douglas’ thighs.

“What do you want?” Martin asks. He’s still a little flushed, and his expression is serious as he traces a warm line down Douglas’ stomach.

“Anything.” Douglas’ hands slide up to hold Martin’s hips, thumbs caressing Martin’s hipbones. “Whatever you want to do.”

“Mmm.” Douglas can’t resist pushing up into Martin’s hand a little when Martin’s fingers reach the head of his cock, exploring where the foreskin has pulled back.

Martin glances up at him from under his eyelashes, before murmuring, “I think I want to suck you. Is that okay?”

“Of _course_ it’s okay,” Douglas gets out as his cock twitches in Martin’s hand. “Really, whatever you want to do is fine–”

Martin doesn’t wait for further approval but shifts backward off Douglas’ thighs and slides gracefully down the bed, nudging his knees apart.

“Wait.” Douglas stretches over to the bedside table, his stomach fluttering wildly at the soft, exploratory press of Martin’s mouth to his inner thigh. He fishes out the box of condoms he bought and fumbles at the cellophane with fingers that don’t want to work properly, not with Martin’s mouth shifting higher to brush against his balls.

“Here.” Douglas eventually gets into the box and tears one off the strip. He shoves it down the bed at Martin. “Here, take this.”

“Thank you.” Martin takes it and lays it to one side. “Do you have lubricant in there too?”

“I… yes.” Martin holds out his hand for it and, after Douglas passes it to him, stripes it liberally across his palm and fingers. He takes hold of Douglas’ cock and Douglas’ toes curl, because Martin’s hand is warm and slick and he seems to know just how hard to grip, how to cup Douglas’ balls and give them a little tug, half-teasing. Martin doesn’t put his mouth on Douglas’ cock, seeming apparently content to lie there and pull lazily at Douglas’ erection until Douglas is half out of his mind with the sight Martin makes.

“Would you…” Douglas’ voice comes out as a croak, and he clears his throat and tries again. “Would you like me to open that for you?”

He toys with the condom packet pointedly, and Martin grins at him.

“Yes please,” he says, looking falsely demure as he runs the pad of his thumb precisely along Douglas’ slit, and Douglas tears the small packet open with shaking hands.

“You’ll need…” Douglas looks around, grabs a tissue from the bedside table. “You’ll need to wipe some of it away.”

Douglas has been leaking and his cock is wet and slick where it pushes up into Martin’s grip, but Martin makes a thoughtful noise and says, “No.”

“Too much lubricant underneath will make it slip off,” Douglas says, reaching down to wipe himself, but Martin fends him away before he gets there.

“I know that. But I’m planning on holding it on tightly.” Martin’s breath ghosts lightly across the head of Douglas’ cock as he suits the action to his words, with a wicked little squeeze around the base, and Douglas’ head falls back as he groans. He’d never have guessed that Martin would be so _wilful_ in bed, but clearly he has a specific plan in mind and Douglas is through with trying to argue with him.

Martin smears a generous dab of lubricant right on the head of Douglas’ cock before rolling the condom over him, and grips the base tightly as he slides it into his mouth.

“Oh _Christ_.” Douglas automatically grips Martin’s hair before forcing his fingers to unwind and let go, and Martin makes a pleased sounding noise.

The lube under the condom makes it feel alarmingly like there’s nothing at all between them; Martin sucks at him slowly, lushly, but Douglas can’t stop himself reaching down to touch the base of his cock.

“It’s fine.” Martin guides his hand, lets him feel the condom snug and tight around him, before tangling their fingers together and making Douglas touch the head of his own cock, feeling how soft and wet the lubricant makes everything. Douglas moans a little, and Martin grins.

“Just relax,” he says. “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”

Martin takes him in again, and Douglas clutches at the pillow under his head. Martin is turning out to be quite surprisingly competent at this; so much so that Douglas has a jealous flutter in his ribcage when he thinks of a younger Martin learning how to do it with his first boyfriend.

It doesn’t take long: getting Martin off had been its own sort of turn-on for Douglas, and now the sight of Martin sprawled between Douglas’ legs, eyes closed and mouth full of Douglas’ cock, giving greedy little moans every so often, gets him there faster than he’d thought it would.

“ _Martin_ ,” he chokes out, squeezing Martin’s shoulder warningly, but Martin stays where he is and makes a hungry, encouraging sort of noise, and Douglas’ hips jerk as he comes into the condom, shuddering and groaning through his teeth.

Martin keeps his mouth on Douglas, sucking at him until the condom – despite Martin’s best efforts – starts to slip a little as Douglas softens, when he pulls away.

“Mmm.” Martin’s eyes are sparkling in pleasure, his mouth wet and very red, and Douglas tugs at his shoulder weakly, wanting nothing more than to kiss him. Martin obeys, sliding up the bed to kiss him and pulling away when the continued pressure of his hand holding the condom in place makes Douglas flinch.

“Where are those tissues?” Martin looks around. “I need something.”

Douglas retrieves them but Martin insists on being the one to slide the condom off him and clean him up, and Douglas lies there and lets him, his body pleasantly fuzzy with aftershocks.

“So…” Martin flops down next to Douglas once he’s leaned over the bed to drop the condom in the bin, and looks at him. “Would you mind if I…” Martin bites a little at the corner of his mouth, looking away, and Douglas rests an encouraging hand on his back. “Could I… stay? It’s just that it’s a bit late to drive back, but if it’s a problem then obviously–”

“Of course you can!” Douglas exclaims, and Martin’s expression relaxes into a relieved smile. “Good God, yes, of course. In fact I had rather been working on the assumption that you would.”

He wraps an arm around Martin’s waist to pull him close, idly stroking the warm, slightly damp skin along Martin’s spine. “I even bought you a toothbrush.”

Martin draws back to look at him, one eyebrow arched, and Douglas can’t work out why until Martin says, “So, you were that certain that this evening was going to be it, were you?”

“No, no,” Douglas says quickly. He wouldn’t have thought that Martin would get annoyed over something so simple, but just in case… “I mean, I _hoped_ , of course, but I wasn’t certain. If you’d said no then of course that would have been perfectly fine.”

“I see.” Martin lays his head down on Douglas’ shoulder and Douglas cups his hand over Martin’s nape, instantly loving the feel of Martin’s hair tickling his jaw. “You needn’t have bothered, actually.” He shifts while Douglas is still trying to puzzle out what Martin means by that, and adds: “I’ve got mine in my bag. Along with a change of clothes.”

It takes a moment for Douglas to process this, but when he realises he’s being teased he laughs at the ceiling. “Have you indeed.”

“Yes.”

Martin’s grin is audible in his voice, and Douglas mock-growls, “You _presumptuous_ rascal,” as he rolls Martin over and sends his fingers dancing along Martin’s ribs until Martin yelps in a very undignified manner.

***

Douglas feels ten feet tall the next day when he wakes to see Martin still asleep next to him, his face mashed into a pillow and one gorgeously bare arm and shoulder poking out from under the duvet. Douglas wakes him with kisses to his shoulder, until Martin turns his head and opens sleepy eyes and gives Douglas a blindingly happy smile.

They stay in bed for the morning and Douglas only lets go of Martin in the afternoon, with much grumbling and reluctance, for a van job that Martin has booked. He invites Martin back over that evening and, after dinner, he takes Martin back to bed to give him the longest, slowest blowjob he can manage. Martin’s performance last night had the inescapable feel of a gauntlet being flung down, and so Douglas rucks one of Martin’s thighs over his shoulder and rolls a condom onto him and goes down on him for what feels like _ages_ , until Douglas’ jaw is sore and Martin has lost all coherency, until Martin reaches down to cup his hands under his own thighs, lifting and spreading himself before dragging Douglas’ hand down and back in an unsubtle hint.

Afterwards, once Martin has come – crying out and body shuddering tight around the two wet fingers Douglas twisted up into him – he retaliates by propping his head and shoulders up against the headboard and getting Douglas to kneel astride his chest and fuck his mouth. Douglas does so, his grip white-knuckled on the headboard with the restraint needed not to go too fast or too deep, risking a glance down at Martin to find him looking up at Douglas peacefully, as though there’s nowhere he’d rather be than right there, his mouth stretched open around Douglas’ cock and his hands petting absently at the backs of Douglas’ thighs.

A few weeks later Martin brings over some T-shirts, socks, and underwear, at Douglas’ suggestion, since Martin is spending a lot of nights at Douglas’ flat. And on the sofa, while snogging after dinner one night, Douglas can’t stop thinking about the noise Martin always makes at the first push of Douglas’ fingers into him and at last he raises his head to ask “Do you enjoy penetration?”

Martin looks up at him, flushed and dishevelled and licking his lower lip in a way that probably ought to be illegal.

“I rather do, yes,” he says, undoing another button on Douglas’ half-loosened shirt. “If you’re up for it.”

_That was a bloody understatement,_ Douglas thinks wildly later that night, his toes curling and hands fisting in the sheets. Because Martin doesn’t just enjoy penetration, he seems to absolutely _love_ it. Douglas – wanting to be considerate – had piled up the pillows against the headboard and half-sat, half-lain back against them and got Martin to sit astride his hips, reasoning that Martin’s could take things at the pace he wanted. Douglas just hadn’t counted on that pace being positively _glacial_.

Martin doesn’t seem to be in any discomfort: he’d kissed Douglas and squirmed and made appreciative noises into Douglas’ mouth while Douglas used half a tube of lubricant to work him open. And he’d clutched Douglas’ hand tightly as he sank slowly down onto Douglas’ cock, his grip firm but not painfully so, as Douglas had rubbed the small of his back and muttered soothing nonsense to him, and tried very hard indeed to ignore how good Martin felt around him.

But now Martin’s idea of getting himself off appears to be to rock his hips on Douglas’ cock, fucking himself on it while gripping the headboard, and then bringing his hands down to sit perfectly still, Douglas’ cock sunk deeply inside him, while he masturbates, pushing Douglas’ hands away when he tries to help. Martin touches himself until he starts to leak, until his body starts to tighten around Douglas’ cock and his balls draw up, at which point he takes his hands away to reach for the headboard and start moving again.

Martin’s cock juts up flushed and wet between his thighs; his moans sound blissful and he’s clearly enjoying himself, and Douglas wishes he could say the same. He’s sweating copiously, his toes are curling, and his fingernails have almost dug crescents into his palms. The experience of having Martin alternately riding his cock and masturbating right in front of him is inspiring, to say the least, and the effort of not coming leaves him feeling like he’s being slowly turned inside out, like Martin is seeing how thoroughly he can peel Douglas’ self-control away, strip by strip.

“ _Martin_ ,” Douglas grinds out, as Martin stops moving and starts to touch himself again. “Are you planning on letting yourself come any time soon?”

Douglas’ balls are _aching_ , and he grips Martin’s arse and thrusts up a few times, blindly seeking some relief until Martin braces himself against the headboard and sits down _hard_ , stilling Douglas’ hips.

“Wait,” he says, and Douglas’ head falls back as he groans despairingly at the ceiling. Martin leans down to kiss him, suckling gently at Douglas’ lower lip, until Douglas’ hands leave his arse and cup his face.

“It’s for you,” Martin murmurs against Douglas’ mouth. “It’s all for you.”

“What?” is the most coherent reply Douglas can come up with.

“I heard that when you get really close several times without coming,” Martin sits back up and starts to rub and pinch at his own nipples, his eyes fluttering closed, “then when you do finally come it’s supposed to be really–” he moans a little, deep in his throat, “– _really_ good.”

“Much as I appreciate the thought, I think I was already expecting it to be ‘really, really good’ from the moment you said you’d be up for this. And without wanting to spoil your plan,” Douglas grabs Martin’s arse again and uses all his strength to buck his hips up, lifting Martin off-balance and making him fall forwards, flinging his hands out to brace himself on the headboard, “if I don’t get to come soon then I honestly think I might rupture something. And what sort of gentleman would I be if I didn’t make sure my partner finished first?”

With that Douglas starts to jerk his hips up, fucking into Martin with short, sharp strokes and groaning as he does so. Martin, thank God, gets on board with the plan straight away, and drops one hand from the headboard down between his thighs to start fisting his cock. No more slow, teasing strokes: this is fast and dirty and Douglas knows that with that particular stroke it won’t be long at all until Martin comes. Except that Martin, sneaky devil that he is, has clearly been paying an uncanny amount of attention to Douglas’ preferences, because he nuzzles the hair covering Douglas’ ear and starts to moan “God, I want to come, Douglas, so much. You’re so hard, and so big, and… God, I want to. Please make come, Douglas, please, _please_ …”

It shatters Douglas to hear Martin begging breathily and he re-doubles his efforts, until Martin’s breathless pleas become real gasps of “I’m going to come, oh, oh God, yes, I’m close,” and then – when the movement of Martin’s hand on himself gets faster and abbreviated – “Oh Christ, I’m coming, Douglas, I’m _coming_.”

Martin doubles over, warmth spattering between their stomachs; he mashes his face against Douglas’ shoulder to contain his wails but the effort is wasted, even when he bites down on Douglas’ trapezius muscle. The tiny sting of Martin’s teeth is just what Douglas needs, however, and he adds his own noises to Martin’s as he shoves himself as deep as he can and comes, hands tightening almost punishingly on Martin’s arse.

It seems to go on forever, and as the last shudders die away Douglas becomes aware that Martin is squirming a little on top of him.

“Sorry,” he gasps, easing the bruising grip he has on Martin’s bum, and Martin subsides. Martin makes a grateful, if slightly muffled, noise against Douglas’ throat and Douglas runs his hands up to pat vaguely at Martin’s back. Martin turns his head from where it’s tucked into the crook of Douglas’ neck to mouth a clumsy kiss against the side of his throat, and another against his jaw, until he slowly reaches Douglas’ mouth.

Douglas kisses him softly, both of them a little sloppy from endorphins and exertion, and when they separate Douglas opens his eyes to see Martin smiling foolishly at him.

“Goodness,” he murmurs, and squirms a little when Douglas’ softening cock starts to slip out of him. His hair is sticking up in sweaty spikes, his face and throat still flushed and blotchy, but Douglas thinks he’s never seen anything lovelier and he cups Martin’s face in his hand.

“Indeed,” Douglas replies, and Martin turns his head to kiss Douglas’ palm.

Martin is still a little breathless – they both are – but he arches his spine like a contented cat and says, “That was fantastic. Can we do it again?”

“Abso-bloody-lutely,” Douglas replies. “But just not too soon; I’m not sure I can handle you tormenting me like that on a daily basis.”

And Martin’s answering grin rivals that of the Cheshire Cat.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ETA:** Now with gorgeous snuggly fanart by MxDP! Leave some love over at the original here: http://mxdp.tumblr.com/post/51630894223/next-is-martins-shoulder-blade-hard-under-the

That isn’t to say that there are no softer moments between them. At first Douglas was attracted to Martin, and amused by his flashes of wit, but as time goes on he finds himself increasingly tender towards him.

At first, if Martin had had a bad day full of clients who were rude or – worse – who cancelled at the last minute and caused him to lose another booking, he would stay at his house rather than come over to Douglas’ house, deaf to Douglas’ protests that Martin was allowed to be in a bad mood after a rotten day. Martin would say that it was bad enough that one of them was in a foul temper, and that there was no need to inflict it on Douglas too.

The first time Douglas wears Martin down and Martin comes round, Douglas makes Martin’s favourite meal and opens a demi-bottle of wine. He needs a glass for the dinner he’s making but then the rest of the bottle is just sitting there and will only get poured away so clearly Martin _ought_ to have a glass or two as the decent thing to do, and Douglas listens as Martin rants. Douglas surprises himself a little with how much he can’t bear to see Martin upset and the following afternoon, after Martin has slept next to him all night and awoken refreshed and ready to face the world again, Douglas feeds Martin lunch before he goes and then gets out the flyers he made for Martin ages ago, back when Martin first mentioned having problems. Douglas takes some down to a café on the high street, run by an acquaintance of his, who agrees to stick one on the notice board.

Fitton being the small place that it is, though, it’s only a matter of time before they come to the attention of the man himself: Douglas’ doorbell sounds one afternoon and he opens the door to find Martin on the doorstep.

“What the hell is this?” Martin demands, thrusting a fistful of pale blue paper under Douglas’ nose and stepping inside. “Explain.”

“How do you know that I have anything to do with whatever that is?” Douglas tries, and Martin rolls his eyes.

“Of _course_ you do, I just know it. So. Explain.” Martin unfolds the paper and looks at Douglas pointedly.

“That is… an attempt at helping,” Douglas says, taking the flyer from Martin and smoothing it out before laying it on his hall table. “I hope you don’t mind. I suppose it was a bit presumptuous of me but you were fretting about money and I wanted to help but, shorting of renting you by the hour, I didn’t see what else I could do.”

Martin glares at him, but the corners of his mouth are twitching.

“You’ve referred to me as an ‘International Van of Mystery’,” Martin says, making air quotes with his fingers, and Douglas grins. He’d been rather proud of that when he’d come up with it.

No mistake, Martin is definitely having to fight to hang on to his scowl and Douglas dares to reach out and curl a finger through Martin’s belt loop, drawing him close.

“Of all the ridiculous names,” Martin complains, but he lets himself be drawn when Douglas pulls at him.

“I beg to differ,” Douglas says. “You’re a pilot, so of course you’re international. As or the mystery…” Martin is now close enough for Douglas to slide an arm around his waist and he does so, feeling Martin reciprocate even as Martin tries to maintain his stern look, “well. If you can give me a good explanation of how that infernal machine passes its MOT every year – without invoking magic elves or a deus ex machina – then I will admit that the mystery part is unnecessary.”

Martin sighs. “Well I suppose that at least explains some of the calls I’ve been getting.”

“What sort of calls?” Douglas asks. He grips Martin’s belt, mock-severely, and asks, “Do I need to have a word with anyone?”

Martin shoves at him – “Idiot,” – but the next instant he wraps his arms around Douglas in a tight hug, pressing his face into Douglas’ shoulder.

“Thank you.” Martin turns his head to mutter against Douglas’ throat. “That’s really… thank you.”

Douglas squeezes Martin hard, and kisses Martin’s hair. “Think nothing of it.”

***

Later that week, Douglas wakes slowly one morning to find Martin pressed up against his back, still asleep, hips rolling and nudging against his arse. It would seem that Martin is having a particularly _interesting_ dream, and Douglas smiles a little to himself as he pushes back against Martin.

Feeling Martin’s erection nudging against his arse reminds Douglas that it’s been an awfully long time since he let anyone fuck him. He used to quite like it, back in his youth, if it was something he was in the mood for and the other bloke knew what he was doing, and at a particularly firm thrust from Martin he catches hold of the hand that Martin has splayed on his stomach and gives it a little squeeze.

Martin comes awake, with a grunt and a sleepy “Wha’?”

“Morning,” Douglas says to him, rubbing at Martin’s hand and forearm. “You’re mauling me in your sleep a bit.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Martin yawns, and Douglas catches his hand again to bring it up to his mouth for a kiss.

“Oh, I didn’t mind. I just thought I’d wake you up so you can maul me properly.”

And he rolls half-onto his front under the guise of stretching, bending one knee and raising it slightly in a subtle invitation that, nonetheless, even Martin should be able to read.

Martin does, although it takes him a few moments. He snuffles against Douglas’ nape and his hand rubs low across Douglas’ stomach, fingers dipping fractionally inside his waistband, before he murmurs, “Are you… do you want me to…”

“Yes,” Douglas says, his heart rate picking up at the lazy push of Martin’s hips against him, and dimly remembered pleasure.

“I didn’t think that was your cup of tea,” Martin says, fingers dipping inside Douglas’ underwear to draw a ticklish line along the edge of the hair at his groin.

“It is occasionally,” Douglas says, hitching his hips a little as Martin’s fingers bump the side of his cock. “Like now, for instance.”

“Mmm.”

Martin doesn’t move, his fingers continuing their lazy exploration while he breathes steady and soft against Douglas’ nape, and Douglas – in a sudden fit of uncertainty – says, “If you don’t want to then we don’t have to, of course, it was just an idle thought–”

“Shh.” Martin catches Douglas when Douglas makes to turn over, hugging him tightly and nuzzling the side of Douglas’ throat. “No, shh, of course I want to. I was just thinking that it must have been a while for you.”

“A bit of a while, yes,” Douglas says, reassured by the strength of Martin’s arm around him and the evidence of Martin’s arousal nudging firmly against his arse. “But it’s just like riding a bike, or so I’ve heard.”

“Hmmm.” Martin sounds amused about something, but before Douglas can ask what it is Martin slides a hand up under Douglas’ T-shirt. “Let’s get this off you, then.”

Douglas would have separated for them each to strip faster but Martin won’t let him, pushing his hands away and insisting on working Douglas’ T-shirt and boxers off himself. Lying there naked and feeling the first press of Martin’s cock between his buttocks, nerves flicker briefly in Douglas’ stomach. Entirely unjustified, of course: this is _Martin_ , who wouldn’t hurt a fly and who would surely stop if Douglas so much as indicated that he might have changed his mind. So Douglas tells himself not to be ridiculous and leans forward to retrieve the lubricant from the bedside table and passes it to Martin.

“Here you go. You’ll be needing this.”

They’ve not used condoms for several weeks now, since Douglas suggested in his most casual tones that perhaps they might think about getting tested before doing away with the things, and Douglas still has a moment of smugness every time he bypasses them in the drawer.

“Thank you.”

Martin takes it off him but doesn’t immediately put it to use; he lays it aside somewhere – Douglas feels his body shift – before resuming his previous activity of stroking gently across Douglas’ thighs and hips.

“Aren’t you going to–” Douglas starts and Martin kisses his throat and shushes him.

“Yes,” Martin says. “Patience. I thought you liked it slow, first thing in the morning.”

It’s true that Martin tends to get off rather quickly when he’s just woken up while Douglas tends to take a little longer, and so Douglas subsides. Martin’s hands skate lazily across his skin, stroking firmly enough not to tickle, and Douglas slowly relaxes back against Martin. Martin makes an approving noise and dips a hand lower, trailing rough fingertips across the soft skin of the inside of Douglas’ thighs, drawing abstract little shapes until his fingers slide up to press behind Douglas’ balls, and slide further back.

Douglas catches his breath at the first dry press of Martin’s fingers against his hole. He’s not been touched there in _years_ , and he can’t deny that it feels strange initially. Martin doesn’t try to push in, however, only keeps up the slightly foreign pressure as he murmurs, “Turn your head and kiss me.”

Douglas does so and Martin props himself up on one arm to lean over and kiss Douglas as he touches him, stroking gently back and forth until Douglas starts to feel the first stirrings of pleasure low in his belly.

“Okay?” Martin murmurs against his mouth and Douglas nods. “Good.”

Martin takes his hand away, breaking their kiss for a moment to look down at what he’s doing, and Douglas turns his head away when he hears the click of the cap on the tube of lubricant. He braces himself for the cold, unpleasant shock of it but Martin’s fingers, as they slide easily between his buttocks, are wet and slippery and _warm_ , and Douglas looks over his shoulder at Martin in surprise.

Martin’s eyes dance with mirth as he pushes gently at Douglas’ hole, and Douglas chokes out “How did you…”

“I’ve been holding it between my thighs to warm it up,” Martin tells him, punctuating his words with a kiss. “By God, it’s chilly.”

Douglas laughs a little, and it turns into a gasp as Martin slides a finger up into him.

“Easy,” Martin murmurs to him, kissing Douglas’ bare shoulder as he eases his finger in and out. “You’re all tense; just relax, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Douglas can’t remember the last time anyone took the trouble to make him feel so looked after. He’s always thought of himself as the one who takes care of others, not the one who’s taken care of, and it’s a role he’s always been happy occupying. But Martin kisses his shoulder and throat as he coaxes two and then three of his fingers into Douglas’ body, and when Douglas is almost obscenely wet between his buttocks and inner thighs Martin draws back to slick himself with lubricant.

The first inwards push makes Douglas gasp sharply, and Martin leans down to kiss him. He fumbles for Douglas’ hand, clasps it tightly.

“You’re aright,” he breathes to Douglas. “You’re okay, just breathe.”

Douglas could never have imagined in a million years that Martin could be like this: patient and steady and self-assured. Douglas had rather imagined Martin being a bit overwhelmed by it all, and coming far too soon and then apologising profusely before finishing Douglas off. But instead Martin holds still and coaxes Douglas back to full hardness before moving, a gentle, rocking motion that causes half-forgotten surges of pleasure inside Douglas and makes him drop his hand to his groin to cover Martin’s hand on his cock with his own.

Afterwards – when Douglas has groaned helplessly and come over their joined hands, Martin’s hips rocking into him and Martin’s mouth whispering indistinct words into his nape – Douglas takes his hand off his cock and reaches behind himself to grip Martin’s hip. Martin is trembling, Douglas realises. He’s shuddering against Douglas, still hard and unsated, and Douglas suddenly sees that this display of stamina – for Martin, when he’s just woken up – is impressive indeed.

“Come on,” Douglas tells him, grinding back against Martin and gritting his teeth against the oversensitive little aftershocks it sends through him. “That was marvellous. But now let’s take care of you.”

In response Martin buries his face against the back of Douglas’ shoulder, a deep groan rumbling in his chest; he grabs hold of Douglas’ hip but only manages half a dozen or so hard thrusts before he makes a broken noise and stills, and Douglas fumbles behind himself to find Martin’s hip and squeeze encouragingly.

After a few long moments Martin exhales a deep sigh, muscles relaxing. He’s very gentle as he pulls away from Douglas and insists on checking him to make sure he’s okay, ignoring Douglas’ protestations that he’s fine, and that he’d know if he wasn’t. Only once Martin has satisfied himself that Douglas is alright will he consent to curl up behind Douglas, hugging him and stroking his chest and stomach as he asks, “Was that what you wanted?”

“Yes.”

Douglas feels oddly emotional, and he closes his eyes. But Martin doesn’t force him to look round or elaborate, merely kisses Douglas’ shoulder and strokes his stomach and murmurs, “Good. I’m glad.”

And Douglas lies there and thinks _Yes, it was._ You’re _exactly what I wanted._

***

Slowly, almost without Douglas realising, the weeks turn into months. It’s so terribly _easy_ with Martin; he’s one of the most gloriously sensual creatures Douglas has ever had the pleasure of taking to bed, and Douglas hasn’t yet tired of kissing Martin’s milk-pale skin and watching him flush pink with arousal. But Douglas also finds himself quite ridiculously captivated the first time Martin comes over for dinner and then asks, through a poorly suppressed yawn as they sit on the sofa after dinner, if Douglas would mind terribly if they went to bed just to sleep.

“Of course not,” Douglas exclaims, pulling Martin to lean more firmly against him. “Come on, let’s go now. I’m not really watching this, and you look positively exhausted.”

That night Martin tucks himself into the curve of Douglas’ body, chastely dressed in a sleep T-shirt and a soft pair of pyjama bottoms. Douglas rubs his nose through the soft, clean hair at Martin’s nape and murmurs, “Goodnight,” to him as he slides an arm around Martin’s waist, and Martin’s reply is to cover Douglas’ hand with his own as he murmurs indistinctly, already half-asleep.

Martin has done the same thing a couple of times since then – and once he’s fallen asleep on Douglas’ shoulder right there on the sofa – and Douglas never feels anything but terribly protective of him. Martin works harder than anyone Douglas has ever met but Douglas knows very well what Martin’s response to offers of help would be, and so Douglas contents himself with inviting Martin over for dinner as often as he can get away with, and deliberately saying how he’s looking forward to an early night on evenings when Martin is pale with tiredness.

It’s after one such evening that Douglas awakes early the next morning. One benefit of his suggestions to Martin is that he’s been going to bed earlier than he otherwise would, and the early nights leave him bright-eyed and refreshed the next morning. Martin is still out for the count, his back pressed snugly to Douglas’ chest, and Douglas brushes a gentle kiss over Martin’s hair before easing soundlessly away from him and getting up.

He goes to make coffee, closing the bedroom door behind himself so the noise won’t wake Martin. But once it’s done and he’s cradling the cup in his hand, he ends up drifting back through to the bedroom to lean against the doorframe and watch Martin.

Martin has rolled over onto his other side and – Douglas is unfairly charmed to see – has curled himself around Douglas’ abandoned pillow. Martin’s hair is going every which way, and his sleep T-shirt has ridden up to expose a strip of pale skin at the small of his back. He makes an unconsciously lovely sight, snuggled up in Douglas’ bed, and Douglas feels a wave of affection for him so strong that it leaves him momentarily shaken. Waking up to this every morning sounds like the best idea he’s had in a long time and Douglas wants it, suddenly, very much indeed.

He’d married the last person who had induced such thoughts in him; he’d thought that, when Helena left, the chances of him ever feeling that way about someone again were almost non-existent. But Martin looks soft and warm and _good_ , lying there like that, and Douglas wants to keep him so much it leaves him breathless. He _loves_ him; somehow, when Douglas wasn’t looking, his desire for Martin and his amusement at Martin’s sense of humour have deepened until the words rise almost unbidden in his throat.

With Helena, Douglas had taken her out to her favourite restaurant, to an intimate little table for two, and then told her how he felt about her. But Douglas _knows_ Martin, and he knows that any attempt to do the same would probably alarm Martin and serve to convince him that Douglas was trying to gently break up with him. Besides, Douglas doesn’t want Martin to have to wait even a moment longer to know that he’s loved, and nor does he really want to keep biting back the words until they both have a free evening for dinner together.

Douglas sets aside his coffee cup, shrugs off his dressing gown, and climbs back into bed. He reaches over to turn off the alarm that’s due to sound in ten minutes; he can think of a much nicer way to wake up. He leans down to kiss the small of Martin’s back, the smooth skin exposed between T-shirt and pyjama bottoms where the soft, downy hairs on Martin’s skin are too fine and pale to be seen with the naked eye but can only be felt with lips.

Douglas presses a gentle kiss there, mouthing the words soundlessly against Martin’s skin, and Martin stirs. Douglas moves up and presses another kiss to the centre of Martin’s back, among the crumpled folds of T-shirt, and repeats it as Martin moves again.

Next is Martin’s shoulder blade, hard under the warm cotton of his T-shirt, and Douglas nuzzles it, lets his mouth shape _I love you_ noiselessly against it.

This time Martin reaches behind himself, fumbling sleepily until he finds Douglas.

“Wha…” Martin inhales a deep breath and sighs it out as he grips Douglas’ waist. “You’re… are you saying something?”

His voice is rough with sleep and Douglas moves up to lie behind Martin, shaping his body to the loose sprawl of Martin’s. He noses the soft skin under Martin’s ear, inhaling the warm sleep-smell of him, and shapes the words against Martin’s nape.

“You _are_ saying something.” Martin sounds sleepy and amused and exasperated all at once. “What is it? Speak up, I can’t hear.”

Douglas rumbles a vague non-answer at him, pecking a kiss on the side of Martin’s throat.

“Tease,” Martin complains at him. “Tell me.”

He makes to turn over but Douglas slides an arm around his waist and hugs him tightly, holding him in place and pressing his face briefly to Martin’s hair before murmuring “I was saying that I love you.”

“ _What_?”

Martin sounds much more awake now, and he says, “What did you… do you mean…”

This time, when he tries to turn over, Douglas lets him, loosening his clasp so Martin can roll over until they’re almost nose to nose.

“I mean that I love you,” Douglas tells him, catching one of Martin’s feet between his own as Martin blinks at him. He settles his arm back around Martin’s waist and rubs at the skin exposed where his T-shirt has ridden up.

“Really?”

Douglas resists the urge to roll his eyes at Martin’s ingenuous question and only says, “Yes, really.”

“I–” 

“It doesn’t matter if you don’t say it back,” Douglas tells him quickly, moving his hand higher to splay across Martin’s shoulder blades. “Don’t think that you have to say it to be polite; I won’t be offended if you don’t. In fact I’d prefer it if you didn’t, rather than telling a white lie.”

“But I do,” Martin says, looking sweetly confused, and Douglas concedes that perhaps that was rather a lot to drop on him when he’s just woken up.

“Do you?” he says quietly and Martin shifts closer, pushing his knee between Douglas’ legs and tucking his face into the curve of Douglas’ throat.

“Yes.” Martin’s arm slides around his waist, and Douglas hugs him tighter. “I really do. I… I love you.”

Douglas is glad Martin can’t see his face right now because he suspects he’s grinning like an utter idiot, but from the way Martin suddenly presses closer to him then he also suspects he might not be the only one.

“I can’t believe that you… that you really…” Martin’s voice is muffled, until he lifts his head to smile at Douglas.

“Why is it so unbelievable? You’re very loveable.” Douglas cups Martin’s face in a hand and strokes Martin’s cheek with his thumb.

Martin doesn’t reply but the smile he gives Douglas – even with sleep in his eyes and pillow creases on his cheek – is nothing short of dazzling.

They don’t have time for sex before Martin has to get up, but Douglas doesn’t particularly feel the need. It’s nice just to lie here with Martin, tangled around each other and exchanging the intimate trivia of lovers, such as:

“Do you realise that about five seconds after you sat down at my table that first day I was wondering how soon I could decently give you my number,”

and

“Oh God, really? Because I was cursing the fact that I didn’t meet you for the first time in my uniform, rather than my work clothes…”

But at last Martin has to get up, and Douglas lounges in bed and watches him pulling on his old, worn jeans and a T-shirt. Before leaving Martin pats his pockets one last time to ensure he’s not forgotten wallet or keys, before coming to perch on the edge of the bed and kiss Douglas goodbye.

“I’ll see you later,” he says, smiling as Douglas’ arm creeps around his waist. “This one shouldn’t be too long.”

“Alright.”

Martin lingers; Douglas suspects he’s debating whether now is an appropriate time to repeat the words and, to test his hunch, Douglas says, “I love you. Now go on, go to work.”

“I love you too,” Martin says immediately, with a grin that manages to be shy and heartstopping in equal measure. “I love you.”

Martin looks almost surprised at himself, at his own daring, and Douglas has to tug him close for another kiss, which turns into two, and then three, and they only stop when Martin catches sight of the clock.

***

For all that relationships with men aren’t new to Martin, Douglas wonders how many of them have progressed this far. Because while Douglas will say the words casually, easily, Martin often slips and stumbles as he tries to get them out, often apologising for not being more elegant with it. Douglas doesn’t know how to tell him that his hesitant, stumbling efforts are more appealing than any smooth, polished declaration could ever be.

Douglas says it during sex, as well. One evening he has Martin sitting astride his hips, both of their cocks in his hand while Martin thrusts slowly into Douglas’ grip.

“I love you,” Douglas tells him, and Martin moans and kisses him. Douglas kisses him back, cradling Martin’s jaw with his hand while his other holds their erections pressed tightly together.

“I love you,” Douglas says again, when they break apart to breathe, and Martin pants. He’s flushed, his eyes tightly shut; no wonder, since Douglas has been teasing him for ages now.

“You… I… Douglas, I love… love…” Martin stutters, and Douglas smiles and twists his hand slightly, and the rest of Martin’s words are lost in a moan.

Afterwards, when Douglas has finally let Martin come, and wiped away the mess between their stomachs, and kissed away the marks Martin’s teeth left in his lip; when Martin has changed from being tense and straining towards his climax to a loose-limbed, sleepy sprawl against Douglas… that’s the moment that Martin slides a hand across Douglas’ chest, a little shy, and murmurs the words in the darkness. “I love you.”

Before Douglas can reply Martin adds, “I’m sorry I can’t say it as easily as you do.”

“No apologies needed,” Douglas says at once, lifting Martin’s hand to his lips to kiss the backs of his fingers. “Truly. It’ll come, if you want it to. Or not, it’s all fine.”

“I do want it to,” Martin exclaims, and Douglas smiles against Martin’s hand.

“Well then. Just give yourself time.”

Douglas is looking forward to having that time with Martin, to watching him grow in confidence around Douglas and become more sure of what they have.

But in the end, things don’t quite work out like that.


	7. Chapter 7

It begins like any other normal day. They slept in late, and Douglas curled up behind Martin and gave him a lazy morning wank as he came awake, with Martin twisting his head round to kiss Douglas and moan into his mouth.

Now they’re cooking a late breakfast; Douglas has flung on a dressing gown and Martin has pulled on his boxers and one of Douglas’ shirts. It’s a little too big for him, and Douglas has a thrill of possessive pride every time he sees Martin having to turn up the cuffs or the loosened collar baring a hint of collarbone. The gleam in Martin’s eyes shows that he’s fully expecting them to go back to bed after breakfast, and Douglas’ own thoughts tend that way also.

The first stage of infatuation with each other won’t last forever, Douglas knows. But while it does then it’s an awful lot of fun, and Douglas is determined to enjoy it to the utmost.

“I’m not sure about your mushroom chopping technique,” Douglas says, coming up behind Martin and resting his hands on Martin’s hips with easy familiarity.

“Bugger off, there’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Such language,” Douglas says, and dips his head to kiss the side of Martin’s throat, tugging his hips back just enough so that Douglas can press against him, a silent reminder of how Martin had been cursing last night as Douglas fucked him. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Mmm.” Martin sets down the knife he’s holding and reaches up and back to tangle his hand in Douglas’ hair, his head falling to one side to offer his neck up to Douglas’ mouth. Amusement thrums in his voice. “I’m sure I can think of something.”

Douglas starts to wonder whether to hoist Martin up onto the counter and see if he can coax Martin hard enough for a blowjob but at that second, with spectacularly bad timing, the doorbell goes.

“Leave it,” Douglas growls against the side of Martin’s throat. He’s been getting a lot of cold callers lately and he’s losing his patience with telling people that he doesn’t need double-glazing, wall insulation, or to find God.

“You can’t,” Martin scolds, slipping out of Douglas’ grip. “It might be important. I’ll go.”

He twists and Douglas lets him go, grumbling, and calls after him “And put some pyjama bottoms on while you’re there – your feet are freezing.”

Douglas hears Martin fumbling with the door keys and turns his attention back to whisking eggs and milk together, one ear cocked for the sounds of Martin’s polite rebuttals, while wondering how long to leave Martin before going to rescue him from whichever messenger of God is at the door today.

Instead there’s a long silence, which causes the faintest stirrings of unease in Douglas’ stomach, and then the low, questioning murmur of Martin’s voice. It’s answered by another voice, a voice that Douglas knows very well indeed, and one that’s slightly too loud as a result of its owner’s shock.

“I’m Helena Richardson. And clearly you’re the person Douglas is shagging these days; he never was inclined to waste time about these things.”

Douglas sets down the bowl of beaten eggs and milk and almost trips over his own feet trying to get out to the hallway. He knows that tone of Helena’s voice, and knows that – like many people – she has a tendency to lash out when someone has shocked or upset her. But it’s not right that Martin should be in the firing line when he’s done absolutely nothing wrong, and Douglas hurries out to intercept her.

He arrives in time to hear Martin saying faintly “Don’t you mean ex-husband?”

“Is that what’s he’s told you?” She arches an elegant brow at Martin, letting the silence hang for a moment, before transferring her gaze to Douglas. She takes him in with one glance, from his tousled hair to the dressing gown gaping open, and says, “Is this a bad time? I tried calling your mobile before I came over but no-one answered.”

His mobile is still turned off in his flight bag, following yesterday’s flight, but before Douglas can answer Martin shrinks back from the door and the look on his face makes Douglas pause.

“You’re still _married_?” Martin says, his eyes huge and shocked in his suddenly pale face. “You told me you were divorced.”

“I…” Even to his own ears it’s a weak argument – the spineless bleat of the adulterer through the ages. “I never _said_ that, actually. I told you that she had left, and that she was my ex, but–”

“Is this a bad time? Perhaps I should come back later.”

Helena is presumably trying to be helpful but just at that moment Douglas wishes she had kept silent: the tone of easy familiarity makes Martin flinch and turn away. Douglas swears, tells Helena “Just… hang on a second. Can you wait in the kitchen, and I’ll be with you in a moment, and hurries after Martin.

Martin is in the bedroom, pulling clothes out of the chest of drawers. At first Douglas thinks he’s looking for pyjama bottoms; meeting your current partner’s ex-wife and finding she’s not quite as ex as you’d thought while dressed in your underwear can’t be a pleasant experience. But Martin ignores him when Douglas reminds him “Third drawer down, left-hand side,” and then it hits Douglas that Martin isn’t looking for pyjamas, he’s _packing_. His bag is open at the foot of the bed and in go the pairs of socks and underwear he’s started to keep at Douglas’, in goes the library book that lives on his side of the bed – since these days Martin is never at his student house unless he has to pack for an upcoming trip – and in go the T-shirts and jeans.

“Martin.”

Martin darts out of the bedroom towards the bathroom and returns clutching his toothbrush and shower gel, but the brief pause has given Douglas a moment to gather himself and he bars Martin’s way and catches hold of his arms, forcing him to stop.

“Martin, please. Hold on a moment. What are you doing?”

“I can’t… I have to go.” Martin won’t look at him and Douglas grips Martin’s biceps gently, ducking his head and trying to see Martin’s face.

“Don’t. Please. Sit down, and let’s talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. You’re _married_ , Douglas, and I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

“Look at me,” Douglas requests softly, thumbs rubbing against Martin’s skin. “Please.”

At last Martin lifts his gaze to meet Douglas’ eyes, and the shock in his expression makes Douglas’ hands tighten.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you,” Douglas says. “I freely admit that it was terribly wrong of me not to do so, and the only defence I can offer is that it never seemed to be a good time for that particular discussion.”

Martin looks away, tendons standing out in his throat, and Douglas tries reflexively to pull him close for a hug.

“Calm down, and let’s sit down and talk about this–”

“No.” Martin resists, pushing Douglas away gently but firmly. There are splotches of colour in his cheeks. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Douglas frowns, his stomach clenching with an inexplicable fear. “At least leave your things here. I can understand if you need to get out for a moment, but–”

“I _can’t_.” Now Martin’s voice sounds choked, and Douglas tries to hug him again but this time Martin twists out of his grip entirely and goes to pull on a pair of jeans.

“You’re over-reacting about this.” Douglas speaks a little more sharply than he means to, and Martin’s shoulders flinch but he keeps stuffing things into his bag and kneels to zip it shut. When he stands, Douglas moves to stand in front of the bedroom door.

“I’m not letting you pass until you listen to me. I–”

“Douglas.”

Martin’s voice is soft, but it cuts through Douglas’ words easily and Martin bites his lip and blinks rapidly several times.

“Please… please just let me go.”

Douglas could have withstood any amount of shouting and arguing, but Martin’s quiet, heartbroken plea undoes him and he steps away from the door. But he can’t resist adding “At least let me know you got home safely. It’s not good to drive when you’re shaken up.”

“I will.”

Martin walks through the door and Douglas blurts, “Martin.”

Martin stops but doesn’t turn to face him, and Douglas promises, “Don’t imagine that this is finished. Sooner or later, we need to talk about this.”

Martin makes no reply, only leaves the bedroom and, a moment later, the front door opens and shuts.

_One down_ , Douglas thinks grimly, his heart hammering. _Let’s hope the next one goes better._

But he gets into the kitchen to find that Helena has quietly let herself out, leaving only a note on the kitchen table:

_I’m sorry about my reaction earlier, I didn’t mean to upset_ here there are words scratched out, before Helena has eventually settled on _your friend. It was rather a shock and it made me rude, but I had no reason to be shocked, I know. I certainly have no right to expect you to sit around and wait for me, after all. It was rather presumptuous of me to pop round, but I know that you’ve always been an early riser and I thought…_

_The truth is I’d like to try again. I miss you terribly, you know._

There are a couple more crossed out lines beneath, as though she’d wanted to add something but didn’t know what, and then merely:

_Helena_

Douglas lets it fall to the table and rubs a hand over his face. There was a time when such a sentiment would have brought him nothing but joy but now he only sits heavily in the nearest chair, wondering how it’s possible for life to turn so totally around in less than half an hour.

***

Douglas puts the whisked eggs and half-chopped mushrooms in the fridge, showers and dresses, and is by the front door with his car keys in his hand before he realises that he doesn’t know Martin’s address. He’s given Martin lifts home a few times but he’s been so absorbed in talking to Martin that he’s never consciously made a note of street name (house number is out of the question, as Martin always asks to be dropped off at the corner of the street).

But currently his options are calling Carolyn and asking her to check Martin’s paperwork – which really _isn’t_ a conversation he wants to have – or working it out on his own, and he sets off with renewed determination. After a few false starts and wrong turnings he sees a pub that he remembers Martin remarking upon, and from there he finds his way.

The doorbell of Martin’s house – easily identifiable by the enormous white van outside – is answered by a girl in pyjama bottoms and a hoodie, hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail.

“Can I help you?” she says, obviously puzzled at what someone like Douglas is doing calling on them.

“I’m looking for Martin Crieff,” Douglas says. “I gather he lives here?”

“Oh!” She blinks, surprised. Clearly Martin doesn’t get many callers. “Yes, he’s here, I heard him get back a little while ago.” She steps back from the door, waves him in. “Top floor, on the left.”

“Thank you.”

Douglas climbs the stairs as high up as they go, until the ceiling slopes as he gets under the roof of the house. There are two rooms on the top floor – a glance in the partly open door of the right-hand one indicates that it’s a rough storage room, with boxes stacked everywhere. He taps on the other door.

“Just a minute!” Martin calls. His voice sounds oddly thick, and Douglas waits with barely concealed impatience until Martin opens the door.

“What can I – oh. Douglas. What are you… look, now’s not really the best time to–”

Douglas puts out a hand as Martin starts to close the door again and catches the edge of it. Martin’s eyes are red and slightly swollen and his nose is pink; he’s obviously upset and Douglas states, “I’m not leaving until we’ve spoken about this.”

Martin stills and looks at him, mouth crumpling, and Douglas gentles it to: “I mean, I will if you really want me to. But I very much hope you’ll let me talk to you. Please.”

After a long moment, Martin’s hand falls away from the door and Douglas lets out a sigh he hadn’t realised he was holding. “Thank you.”

Inside Martin’s little room the only place Douglas can stand upright is in the centre, where the walls slope sharply inwards to meet in a point in the middle. There’s not much furniture: a single bed, a chest of drawers and wardrobe, and a cheap-looking desk and chair that both look as though they would fall apart if Douglas trusted his weight to either of them. He settles for perching on the end of the bed.

“Right,” he begins, before looking at Martin. Martin is still rather pale and, despite the thick hoodie he’s wearing, his hands are cold when Douglas touches them.

“Have you eaten anything since you left?” Douglas demands, and Martin shakes his head. Everything seems worse on an empty stomach, Douglas knows from experience; given that Martin had already been hungry when they awoke that morning then God knows he must be _starving_.

“Have some toast or something first,” Douglas says. “No good decisions were ever made on low blood sugar.”

“I’m not hungry.”

That’s doubtless true, since mild shock does odd things to pain and hunger signals from the body, but Douglas presses, “Even so. Just one piece, it’ll do you good.”

“Alright.” Martin gets up, but only makes it as far as the door before stopping and scrubbing at his face self-consciously. “I’ll… um. You know, maybe I’ll just get something later, it’s fine–”

“I’ll go,” Douglas says at once, getting up. Martin looks – not to put too fine a point on it – like he’s been crying, and there’s nothing worse than having to go out and face people with eyes that are still suspiciously reddened. “You just have a seat, and I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks,” Martin says. “My cupboard is the one… it’s sort of on the left, as you go in, not the one right on the end but–”

“Don’t worry, I’ll find it.” Douglas resists the desire to pat Martin’s shoulder or back; he’s forfeited the right to offer physical comfort to Martin, much as he hopes that the forfeit is only temporary.

In the kitchen, Douglas almost doesn’t find it. He suspects it’s the sparsest one but the cupboards have been put up any old how – it looks like a rushed DIY job – and finding “the one almost on the end at the left” isn’t quite as precise as it would seem. He has to resort to asking the girl who answered the door, who’s working on the living room sofa, and she comes into the kitchen to point out Martin’s supplies.

“Is he okay?” she asks, her face warm with concern. “Only I heard him come in but he didn’t stick his head in the living room to say hello to us like he usually does, just went straight up to his room.”

“He’s fine,” Douglas lies, and adds, “More or less. I imagine that in a few hours, if he’s still here, he might appreciate a cup of tea, though.”

“Of course,” she says. “I’ll check on him.”

“Thank you,” Douglas says, and at his questioning look she supplies, “Diane.”

“Diane,” he repeats. “Thank you.”

“It’s fine.” She hesitates, biting her lip. “Has he broken up with the person he was seeing?”

“He told you he was seeing someone?” Douglas asks, discomfited.

“Well,” she says. “Not exactly, no. But we guessed, and when we asked then he admitted he was. He’d not really been sleeping here for a few weeks, and he’s terrible at keeping secrets.”

“I see.” Douglas hesitates, but says, “Yes, he has.”

“Oh, poor him.” Diane makes a face and pulls open another cupboard to take out a packet of chocolate biscuits. “Here.” And before Douglas can thank her she scurries away back into the living room to her books.

Carrying the mug of tea and plate of toast back up the stairs, Douglas takes a moment to compose himself. He can’t lose Martin over this: all those long, careful months of slowly courting Martin, inching closer infinitesimally in case too sudden a rush made Martin pull back. Douglas can’t imagine not having Martin round for dinner in the evenings, or waking up next to him in the mornings, and he takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, trying to calm himself. If ever he needed to be calm and composed then it would be now, and he ascends the rest of the stairs and nudges open Martin’s door.

“Here you are,” Douglas says, setting down the tea and toast on Martin’s desk. “Now please do me the favour of drinking your tea and eating your toast, and listening while I talk to you.”

Martin obediently picks up a piece of toast and nibbles at it while Douglas sits down on the edge of the bed and sighs.

“Firstly,” he says, “I wish I’d answered the wretched door this morning: that was indeed Helena but that wasn’t at all how I’d have chosen for the two of you to meet, and I imagine it must have been quite the shock for you. And I know,” he raises his hands in surrender, “I should have told you about her long before now, I admit. It was very wrong of me not to. So.”

Douglas’ hands flex in a sudden, visceral desire for a drink, for the cool smoothness of a glass between his palms and the sharp burn of vodka at the back of his throat. He clasps his hands together resolutely instead, and continues.

“Helena and I have been married for three years now. However, six months before I first met you we were arguing about something and it came out that she’d been having an affair. One that had been going on for several months, and the following morning she said she thought it was best if we separated for a while.”

Martin opens his mouth, as if to speak, but he stays silent until Douglas gestures at him to go ahead.

“You sound… very calm about it,” Martin says. “Didn’t you mind?”

“Of course I did!” Douglas exclaims, while noting that the tea and toast have brought some colour to Martin’s face and that he looks better for it. “But I certainly wasn’t going to keep her there against her will, and I’m afraid to say that things had been difficult between us for some time before that argument, to the point that ending up back on my own seemed almost preferable to carrying on as we had been.”

Douglas sighs, looks out of Martin’s skylight to the little fleecy clouds chasing each other across the sky. “You already know that Helena isn’t my first wife, or even my second. Previously, when one party asked for a separation divorce inevitably followed, hence I’d been treating it as rather a foregone conclusion. I admit it was wrong of me–” Martin has started to frown slightly and Douglas raises his hands again, “–but there you go. I suppose I had assumed that she wanted out, but was trying to soften the blow with a separation first. But now it seems that I may have been rather premature in referring to her as my ex-wife.”

“What–” Martin’s voice cracks as he speaks, and he clears his throat and tries again. “What does she want?”

This is the part Douglas has been dreading, because he knows already just how Martin – with his strict sense of propriety and his high moral standards – will react. But concealing uncomfortable truths from Martin was what got him into this in the first place, and so he admits, “She wants us to try again. Marriage counselling, working on our communication skills, that sort of thing.”

Martin’s mouth crumples as he looks away and Douglas is quick to say “Martin, I’ve not yet replied to her. I wanted to talk to you first, to see how things stand between us. I told you I loved you and I meant it, and I–”

“Don’t say that to me.” Martin’s voice is hoarse, his words indistinct, and Douglas shifts and leans forward on the bed, trying desperately to catch sight of Martin’s face.

“But I–”

“Douglas, you’re _married_. You have a wife, you can’t say that to me.”

“But–”

“You’re already spoken for.”

“I can be _unspoken_ for too,” Douglas exclaims, stress making him terse. “If you want me to then I’d–” 

“No.” Martin speaks quietly, draws a shaky breath.

“You can’t mean that. Please, Martin.”

Martin doesn’t answer for a long moment but when he does it’s not quite what Douglas expects.

“Did I ever tell you,” Martin begins, “that my parents’ marriage was actually my father’s second?”

“No,” Douglas says gently, “you didn’t.”

“Well it is.” Martin takes a drink of tea, and folds both his hands around the mug as he stares down into it meditatively. “Somewhere out there, there’s a woman who was the first Mrs Crieff; apparently their marriage ended around the same time he met my mother, and I don’t know which came first. But I always thought how much she must have hated us.”

“You mean…” Douglas says slowly, seeing what Martin is driving at but not quite wanting to presume. 

Martin looks at him. “My father’s first wife, obviously. She must have hated us: how could she not?”

“Martin,” Douglas says, still speaking gently. Martin has pulled himself together but Douglas doesn’t want to find out what it would take to start him off again. “Relationships end for all sorts of reasons. You can’t know that things wouldn’t have gone that way anyway.”

“All the same.” Martin pauses, bites his lip. He swallows hard, and forces out: “She’s your wife, Douglas. You took vows to each other: for better, for worse. That has to mean something.”

“So this is it,” Douglas says dully. Martin won’t look at him and Douglas abandons the bed to kneel on the floor at Martin’s feet. He takes the mug of tea off Martin and sets it to one side, taking Martin’s hands between his. “We’re done, are we?”

“I think we have to be.” Martin’s voice is unsteady, his mouth trembling. He looks very much as though he’s trying not to cry, and before Douglas can speak he bursts out in anguish: “Oh God, I met you too late. If I’d met you before, when you’d still been married, I’d never have allowed myself to think of you like that, you would have been off-limits.”

“I know,” Douglas says, gripping Martin’s hands like a lifeline. “And I know that this may not mean very much, what with everything turning out as it has, but for what it’s worth then I wouldn’t have considered it if I’d met you before. I’ve never so much as looked at anyone else while I was with her.”

Martin’s hands tighten briefly on Douglas’ before he pushes them away with an air of finality.

“I think you need to leave now.”

Douglas heaves himself to his feet. He feels curiously numb, and a small, detached part of him observes that that will be the shock.

“Do you need anything?” he asks Martin. “More tea?”

Martin shakes his head. Douglas has no right to linger, he knows, but he can’t bring himself to leave Martin like this. He looks at the soft, pale hollow of Martin’s collarbone, partly exposed by the too-large neck of his hoodie, and offers, “Are you sure? What about something more to eat? Toast isn’t very substantial, and–”

“Douglas.” Martin turns away to prop his elbows on the desk and sink his face into his hands. “Please just go away.”

His voice quivers and cracks on the final word, and when he’s done he draws a deep, shaking breath. Douglas can’t bear to see him on the verge of tears; he wants to hold Martin so much he _aches_ with it, but he’s no right to that now. He grips the back of Martin’s chair and murmurs, “Goodbye,” trying to keep his own voice steady. The impulse to lean down and drop a kiss on the top of Martin’s head, as he’s done so many times before, is almost overwhelming, but Martin is no longer his to comfort and kiss, and Douglas makes himself turn around and leave.

Downstairs, Douglas is about to let himself out when Diane comes out into the hall. Her face, when she sees Douglas, looks as though she’s on the verge of asking Douglas whether _he’s_ okay, never mind Martin, but she only says, “How is he?”

“Not…” Douglas clears his throat. “Not very good, actually. Here.” He pulls out his wallet and shoves twenty quid at her. “Take him out to the pub. Or for dinner. Or get a takeaway, if he doesn’t want to go out. Don’t let him pay. And don’t tell him I gave you this. Would you? Please?”

“Of course I will. God, we would have done it anyway, you know, there’s no need to…” She tries to wave the money away, but Douglas insists and she relents. “Bye, then. Thanks.”

Douglas stumbles out of the door and along the street to his car, before she can change her mind about asking him how he’s doing. He drives home mostly on auto-pilot, and the first thing he sees when he gets back and walks into the bedroom are clothes scattered everywhere, silent evidence of Martin’s panicked flight.

He sinks down to sit on the edge of the bed, buries his face in his hands, and doesn’t move for a very long time.

***

Douglas lurks in his house for a week, licking his wounds. The only thing he wants more than an update on Martin is a drink, just one; there’s half a bottle of wine in the fridge that Douglas had been going to give Martin the next time he was over but he grits his teeth and makes himself pour it down the sink.

He strips the bed and does laundry. Sentimental idiot that he is, he probably would have left the sheets on – they still smelled of Martin – but during sex on their final morning Douglas hadn’t let Martin reach for a tissue at the crucial moment and now the sheets really _do_ need to be changed.

Carolyn calls him with a flight booking after a few days; it’s only a short one and Douglas is quick to say that he can do this one himself, there’s no need to bother Martin. He doesn’t know which would be worse: to come face to face with a Martin who’s still heartbroken, or one who’s apparently forgotten all about what they had and moved on.

After a week, Douglas steels himself and arranges to meet Helena for coffee. They meet and it’s… fine She’s actually been staying with a friend rather than her old Tai Chi teacher, and she wants to try again with him.

Douglas, on his drive home, is more confused than ever. Helena had looked thin and worn, as though she’d not been looking after herself, and he can’t forget how much he loved her during their marriage. But nor can he forget the look of shocked betrayal on Martin’s face as he stuttered “You’re still _married_?” and his thoughts turn round and round in his head until he’s dizzy and half-sick of them.

In the end, it’s Martin who decides things for him. Their next flight together comes a few days later, a trip that’s too long for either of them to be able to operate alone. Douglas isn’t quite sure what to expect but Martin is perfectly calm and professional, if a little quiet, and the take-off passes without incident.

“So…” Douglas begins, once they’ve levelled out at cruising altitude. He doesn’t know how Martin would feel about having a personal conversation in the flight deck, but he’s positively _dying_ to talk to Martin, to find out whether his feelings are the same after having had over a week now to cool off. “I met with Helena the other day.”

“Spare me the details.” Martin’s voice is rather curt and he won’t look at Douglas, instead inspecting the fuel gauge, and Douglas is stunned into silence.

Eventually he recovers enough to mutter “Sorry. But look, I was just wondering whether, now you’ve had a chance to think about things, we could talk about–”

“I do hope our flight back tomorrow goes okay,” Martin says, just a shade too loudly and too quickly. “I’ve got a date tomorrow evening that I don’t want to be late for.”

For the second time in as many minutes Douglas is shocked into silence, before repeating “A _date_?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

Of course Douglas hadn’t wanted Martin to be _unhappy_ , but all the same…

“You’re… you’re sure about that?”

“Am I sure I’ve got a date?” But Martin’s quick glance at Douglas said that he knew exactly what Douglas was asking. “Yes. Very sure.”

“Right then.”

They don’t speak a word to one another for the rest of the flight, and time spent in Martin’s company has never felt so long to Douglas before.

When they arrive and he finally, blissfully, is able to close his hotel room door behind himself and be alone, he calls Helena and tells her that he’s thought about their conversation, and would like to give things another try.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ETA:** Now also with fanart from MxDP, because the gods smile upon me. Check out the original over here: http://mxdp.tumblr.com/post/51512569778/quick-well-quick-for-me-cabin-pressure-fanart

Their flight back the following day does indeed go without a hitch, and Martin up and leaves the flight deck with barely a glance at Douglas once the landing checks are complete. Douglas is in an agony of suspense until their next flight together, a couple of days later, when he waits as long as he reasonably can before asking “How was your date?”

“Hmm?” Martin looks over at him, seeming startled before his face shutters. “Fine.”

He lifts a hand to touch his throat in a brief, unconscious gesture, and after he looks away Douglas scrutinises his neck. He immediately wishes he hadn’t, because on Martin’s pale skin is the fading remnant of a lovebite and Douglas’ hands tighten briefly on the yoke. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to sound casual as he says, “Will you be seeing him again?”

Martin’s mouth twists in a way that Douglas doesn’t like at all, and he says shortly “No.”

“Oh.” Douglas casts about for something to say that won’t betray his relief. “Well. I’m sorry to hear–”

“Douglas.” Martin pauses. “Just… don’t.”

And Douglas shuts up.

That evening Martin accepts Arthur’s invitation to dinner – Arthur has sensed that something’s up, and has been inviting them to do things together with poorly disguised anxiety. But on their return to the hotel Martin veers off towards the hotel bar when Douglas and Arthur make for the lift up to their rooms.

“Not tired yet,” he says, which is the starkest lie Douglas has ever heard, if the circles under Martin’s eyes are to be believed. “I’m just going to go and sit, for a while.”

He’s gone before either of them can speak, and Douglas forces himself to smile at Arthur.

“Well, I certainly am. See you in the morning, Arthur.”

“Yeah.” Arthur’s frown clears. “Yeah, alright. See you then.”

Douglas goes into his own room and shuts the door, but he doesn’t get ready for bed. Instead he sits on the edge of the bed, motionless, watching the seconds tick by on his watch, and when he judges that Arthur has had enough time to go to bed he gets up, leaves his room, and pads down the corridor on silent cat feet.

He makes for the hotel bar. Martin can’t _really_ be as wide-awake as he’s pretending so he must have an ulterior motive; Douglas has an uncomfortable suspicion about what it might be and his stomach sinks down into his shoes when he gets to the doorway of the bar and sees that Martin isn’t alone. He’s sitting at the bar, a glass of wine in front of him, and next to him is a sharply dressed businessman who’s looking at Martin’s opened shirt collar the way a shark looks at a piece of raw meat.

The fury that surges through Douglas leaves him breathless and shaken, and he has to swallow hard. Martin is a grown man and it’s certainly none of Douglas’ business what he chooses to do on their layovers, not any more.

And so, although every instinct is urging him to go forwards, put a possessive hand in the small of Martin’s back, and glare pointedly at Martin’s prospective bed partner, Douglas makes himself step back and turns away with dragging feet.

***

The following morning Douglas is down at breakfast early, positively _dying_ of impatience to see Martin. Arthur joins him after a while, and Douglas gives only half an ear to his chat. It’s not like Martin to be late, and when he eventually arrives Douglas has to restrain himself from starting an interrogation.

“Morning,” Martin mutters to them both, sliding into his seat. “I overslept a bit.”

“Did you sleep alright, Skip?” Arthur asks guilelessly. “Only you look a bit tired still.”

Arthur wouldn’t know the signs of a one-night stand if he fell over them but Douglas does, and his eyes miss nothing as they skip over Martin’s shower-wet hair, his slightly flushed mouth, and the faint rash on the side of his throat that looks suspiciously like beard burn.

It’s sickening, this evidence that someone else has had Martin: has kissed him and fucked him and left their claim on his skin, and Douglas pushes his breakfast plate away, his appetite gone.

If Martin notices then he says nothing, merely takes a croissant from the basket on the table and nods when Arthur offers to pour him a coffee. But he won’t look at Douglas, even when Douglas asks him a direct question, and Douglas sighs. He shouldn’t be surprised at this turn of events; they were always a possibility. However he’d not anticipated them making him feel like such an utter shit.

***

In Montpellier it’s a tall, blond man who looks vaguely Scandinavian, Boston is someone else (Douglas isn’t sure who, but Martin’s appearance at breakfast the following morning is impossible to mistake), and Venice is a lithe, sloe-eyed young man who Douglas tries very hard indeed not to picture naked with Martin because – under his jealousy – he imagines they make an absolutely stunning pair.

It’s well and truly none of Douglas’ business, and the phrase grows worn from repetition in his mind. Martin is single, and he’s perfectly free to shag whoever he likes; Douglas is a married man, with a wife that he’s going to marriage counselling with. But it would be easier to resign himself to Martin’s sudden taste for promiscuity if he thought it was what Martin really wanted. He can’t shake the memory of their first time together, with Martin’s sweet hesitation as he admitted that yes, it had been a rather long time for him, and on each of Martin’s morning afters Douglas sees all the signs of a successful one-night stand except the most important one: Martin doesn’t look _happy_ about it.

Instead he looks merely tired, lacking the glow of endorphins that should be present, but when Douglas tries to say something – on one particularly worrisome morning where Martin had missed breakfast entirely and only turned up as the taxi was waiting – Martin rounds on him with a sharp retort. The whole of the flight back to Fitton is spent with Douglas determinedly ignoring Martin’s poorly suppressed yawns, and biting his tongue against the urge to offer to take over before Martin falls asleep at the controls. Not his business, and perhaps if Douglas repeats the words to himself enough times he’ll start to believe them.

In the meantime he goes to marriage counselling with Helena. He tolerates being patronised by a ridiculous man in tweed trousers who doesn’t wear a wedding ring and who, Douglas suspects, has never been married in his life. Douglas acknowledges that yes, he has difficulty talking about his problems and that yes, he also finds it hard to present himself as anything less than perfect. Helena is attentive and loving; she moves back into their house and Douglas does his best to reciprocate her gestures but it feels oddly hollow, as though he’s acting a part in a play.

Martin never asks after Helena, and Douglas never volunteers any information. They still play their word games on flights, albeit with a slightly forced joviality, and Douglas feigns an incompetence he – of course – doesn’t possess to leave Martin with more of the cheese tray, since Martin refuses to just take it when it’s offered. Martin is looking rather thin these days, and the dark circles under his eyes seem to have become permanent fixtures, but Douglas holds his tongue and swallows back his words until the weight of them threatens to lodge in his throat and choke him.

But on their return flight from Copenhagen, when Martin reaches out to balance the fuel, his sleeve rides up and Douglas spits, “Jesus bloody Christ,” at what it reveals.

There are _marks_ on the pale skin of Martin’s wrist, angry pink marks. Douglas is sexually experienced enough to know exactly what they’re from, and he knows that their presence is generally an indication of an idiot who doesn’t know what he’s doing and thinks that having the proper kit doesn’t matter.

Martin had looked rather shaken at breakfast this morning and had refused to take his jacket off, hence Douglas has been treating him with kid gloves thus far. But at this sight he seizes Martin’s forearm in an iron grip and tugs his sleeve up.

“Douglas,” Martin protests, trying to pull his arm away.

But Douglas firms his hold and demands, “What the hell is this?”

“It’s… it’s…” Martin stutters, before rallying. “It’s none of your bloody business.”

And he wrenches at his arm with such force that Douglas has to let go before he bruises Martin.

Douglas begins, “I–”

“Save it.” Martin tugs his sleeve down over his wrist, glares at Douglas. “Whatever you’re going to say then you can bloody well shove it, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Alright,” Douglas says slowly, taking a deep breath against the acid burning the back of his throat. “You’re right, it’s nothing to do with me. But you…” Martin looks at him narrowly, and Douglas blurts out “You are being _careful_ , aren’t you? Tell me you’re using protection, I–”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Martin exclaims. “Of course I am. Not that it’s–”

“I know, I know.” Douglas raises his hands, forces himself not to look at Martin’s wrists. “It’s nothing to do with me.”

For a change, the rest of the flight is spent with taut silence from Douglas and Martin trying various conversational forays to draw him out. He just about manages the bare minimum for politeness, and after they’ve landed and taxied to a halt Martin unsnaps his seatbelt and turns to face Douglas.

“Look,” he begins, hands balled in his lap. “I just wanted to let you know that… well, EasyJet are recruiting. And I sent off an application a few weeks ago.”

Douglas can only stare at him in dismay, for once rendered speechless, and Martin continues, just a touch defensively: “It makes financial sense; it’s not as though Carolyn is paying me. And what with… everything…” he gestures vaguely between them, “I just thought it would be easier if I… worked somewhere else.”

For a long moment Douglas can’t speak, but he swallows and collects himself and at last manages, “Yes. Yes, of course, you’re right. Carolyn can hardly expect you to stay here indefinitely.”

“Right. Yes.” Martin blows out his breath. “I just wanted to let you know. I’ve been meaning to tell you for weeks now, but there never seemed to be a good time.”

“I wish you every success,” Douglas says, his voice carefully steady. “They’ll be lucky to have you.”

He holds out his hand; Martin takes it and Douglas grips firmly. The memory rises unbidden of their first handshake when they met, with Martin flushing and shifting from foot to foot and glancing up at Douglas, half-shy, half-flirtatious.

“Thank you,” Martin says and, with a rather crumpled smile, he squeezes Douglas’ hand before gathering his things and leaving.

Douglas sits for a long time in the silent flight deck after Martin has gone, staring unseeingly out of the window and wishing – for the first time ever – that he’d never stopped for lunch in that café all those months ago.

***

The drive home seems to take forever, but Douglas doesn’t mind. It gives him time to compose himself; he doesn’t particularly want to have to explain to Helena why he’s so out of sorts after an otherwise uneventful flight.

Douglas pulls up in his driveway and takes a deep breath, preparing himself to be calm and carefree and affectionate towards his wife, but when he lets himself into a house that’s clearly empty he’s guilty relieved.

Until, that is, he spots the note on the kitchen table.

_Darling,_ it reads.

_I’ve left. It’s a cowardly way to do it like this, but I couldn’t bear to see your face when I told you. I hope you won’t think too badly of me for it._

_The truth is that you’ve not been your old self since I moved back in. I can see you trying, so terribly hard, but you have to admit that it’s not working. And I can’t bear to see you unhappy from forcing yourself into something you’re not sure about._

_So I’m going. I still know you well enough to know that you’ll never admit it, you stubborn old thing, but you know I’m right._

_I was a fool to think that things could go back to how they were. We’ve both changed too much. It seems the only way is forward._

_Take very good care of yourself._

_H_

Douglas sits down heavily at the kitchen table. So it’s official, then. Another divorce, another failed marriage, and this one from a woman he drove away not once but twice.

If he stays here he’ll drink, he knows himself well enough to be aware of the danger signs, and so he picks his car keys back up and goes out. He doesn’t have any particular destination in mind, and he drives aimlessly until he finds himself more than halfway to the parking spot overlooking the airfield.

He’s been avoiding it lately, due to memories of going there with Martin when they first tentatively decided to try navigating a relationship together, but avoiding it hasn’t done him much good so far. It’s as good a place as any to contemplate the mess he’s made with the two people who, with the exception of his daughter, mean more to him than anyone else in the world, and so he drives the rest of the way there in a sad sort of resignation.

He’s in for a surprise when he gets there, however: someone’s already parked there. It’s an enormous old Transit van; as Douglas draws up and parks he notices that it looks an awful lot like _Martin’s_ van, in fact, and he gets out of the car and walks over to it.

It _is_ Martin’s van: Douglas peers in through the window and recognises the seats and the dog-eared road atlas they’d used to navigate their way to Ottery St Mary. But there’s no sign of Martin.

Douglas walks all the way around the van in case he’s leaning against the other side of it but returns to his starting point none the wiser. The land here is flat for miles in every direction; a lone figure watching the airfield would be instantly visible but he’s nowhere in sight and the first faint stirrings of concern start to flicker in Douglas’ stomach.

Douglas hesitates for a long time before pulling out his phone and hitting the speed-dial button that still holds Martin’s number. Clearly Martin has come out here to be alone but it’s very unlike him to just wander off and abandon his van, and Douglas tells himself he’ll just make sure that Martin is okay before leaving and respecting his privacy.

“Hello? Douglas? What’s wrong?”

Martin’s voice, when he answers, echoes oddly, and Douglas’ careful explanation evaporates. It sounds as though Martin is speaking on the phone while standing right next to him, but Douglas turns in a circle and he’s still nowhere in sight.

“Douglas?”

“Where the hell are you?” Douglas asks, baffled. “I’ve found your van abandoned but not _you_ , and I just wondered what had happened.”

Martin snorts in his ear. “Of course it’s not abandoned.”

There’s a curious thumping sound from inside the van and Douglas stares at it – confounded as to why Martin would be _sitting inside his van_ – until Martin’s voice in his ear says, “Up here,” sounding deeply amused.

Douglas looks up, and then has to step back.

“Martin!”

Martin’s head is poking over the side of the van, looking entertained at his confusion. Martin hangs up with one hand, and smiles down at Douglas. “Hello.”

“What on earth are you doing up there?”

“I… I’m…” Martin bites his lip and looks suddenly awkward. “I just like to come here sometimes and watch the planes. Since you brought me here. Anyway–” he changes topic abruptly, having not really answered Douglas’ question as to what he’s doing on the roof of his van, “what are _you_ doing here?”

“I’m…” Douglas sighs. He doesn’t want to burden Martin with his woes, but not talking about them was what got him in trouble in the first place. “Helena left me. Again. And I needed to get out of the house for a bit.”

“Did she?” Martin’s expression crumples in concern. “Hang on, I’m coming down.”

“What?”

“Stand back. And open the driver’s door.”

Douglas opens the driver’s side door and steps back, and Martin squirms around until his legs dangle off the top of the van. Before Douglas can step forward or offer to help, Martin has jammed a foot into the gap where the door attaches to the body of the van, stuck another one on the driver’s seat, and hopped nimbly down to stand before him.

Douglas is momentarily diverted. “I never knew you could get up on top of there.”

“Yes.” Martin smiles at him. “Sometimes I like to go somewhere quiet, get up there, and just watch the clouds.”

“How would you have got down if I hadn’t been here to help?”

Martin shrugs. “I can manage with the door shut. It’s easier with it open, though.” His feet are bare, Douglas notices; his toes pale against the grass. “But what about you? Are you okay?”

“Oh, yes.” Douglas sighs. “I mean, not right now, but I will be.”

Telling Martin the bare facts of the matter is one thing, but Douglas can’t face having an in-depth discussion of his feelings and he shoves his hands in his pockets and says, “But what about you? Just felt like a drive, did you?”

“Oh.” Martin looks away, his mouth twisting wryly. “Not quite. I got home to find one of those auto-generated emails from EasyJet. The standard thing – thanks for applying, etcetera, they’ve considered my application but they’re not inviting me for interview.” He turns away to fish his socks and boots out from the seat well, and hops up to sit on the driver’s seat as he puts them on. “Looks like I’m still going to be at MJN for the moment, then.”

Douglas watches him tugging on his boots and tying the laces; his heart lifts at the thought of Martin staying put but he tries to sound appropriately sympathetic as he says, “Bad luck. There’ll be other opportunities, though.”

“Yeah.” Martin finishes fussing with his laces and sits back up, leaning against his seat and staring out of the front windscreen. “I know.”

He stirs himself, looks back at Douglas. “I’m sorry about you and Helena.”

Douglas shrugs. “It happens. I can’t pretend I’m not disappointed, but she was right to go.”

“Mmm.”

Martin seems to have something on his mind, and Douglas stays silent and only looks encouraging until Martin gets out “I… it wasn’t… was it _me_? I’m so sorry, I–”

“No, no, nothing of the sort.” Douglas is already shaking his head. “Martin, stop. It was nothing to do with you; whatever problems Helena and I had were months in the making, and you had no hand in them.”

“Oh. Right.” Martin jumps down from the seat to stand in front of Douglas, looking relieved. “Good. I mean, not good that you had problems, but, um–”

“I know what you mean.”

Martin is still looking at him, giving him quick, nervous glances out of the corner of his eyes, and Douglas bites his lip.

He’s dying to know Martin’s current thoughts about relationships, as opposed to another of his string of one-night stands. Since their break-up then all personal talk – apart from Douglas’ outburst earlier today – has more or less died away in the flight deck; all that’s left is talk pertaining to the flight and various word games, and even those are initiated almost entirely by Douglas. Martin hasn’t lost any of his appeal, to Douglas’ eyes, but Douglas is newly separated from his wife (again) and hasn’t even readjusted to the loss of another marriage. He has nothing to offer Martin, not just now, even if he had any indication that Martin were still interested.

But Martin is _looking_ at him with those eyes, and Douglas wants to reach out and touch so much he has to look away and take a breath to steady himself.

“So how long…” Martin falters, “I don’t know what the timescale of this sort of thing is like–”

“Several months,” Douglas says. “Assuming all goes amicably, which it should do.”

Martin nods immediately. “Right, yes, of course. That makes sense.”

“Yes.”

Silence hangs awkwardly between them. The pressure of the words in Douglas’ throat is almost unbearable; he has the distinct impression that if he lets this moment slip away now then there’s no telling if it will ever come again and at last he forces out “Martin.”

Martin looks at him.

“I’m… sorry you got mixed up in all that,” Douglas says, with difficulty. “Please believe me, I never wanted to hurt you.”

Martin smiles faintly. “I know.”

The late afternoon sun catches his hair and makes it gleam. He’s oddly still, almost as though he’s waiting for something, and it’s this that finally forces Douglas to speak.

“I don’t…” Douglas hardly knows what he’s saying but he has to say _something_ , has to make Martin see how much he’s wanted, and he perseveres. “I’m not really in any fit state to offer you, well, anything, but in a few months I… I mean, I do still _care_ for you, and I… Obviously I’m not asking you to wait for me to get myself sorted out, I’ve no right to ask you for anything. But perhaps, if you happened to find yourself still single when everything’s sorted out… I could ask you… Well. Perhaps for a coffee, or something.”

Douglas hasn’t been so ineloquent since his gawky adolescence, and he despairs inwardly. Just when he needed to be calm and sophisticated, too.

But Martin isn’t looking put off. He’s smiling shyly, and when Douglas has fallen silent he speaks.

“I… I wouldn’t mind waiting for you, you know. I think you’d be worth it. But not while you’re still…” he hesitates, but visibly makes himself say it, “–you’re still _married_. I don’t think I could–”

“No,” Douglas says quickly. “No, I understand, I wouldn’t ask you to.” Things are well and truly over between him and Helena this time, but all the same.

“Right.” Martin nods and glances up at Douglas, his expression soft. “Ask me again after your decree absolute. I’m not saying yes, I’m just saying. Ask again.”

Douglas’ heart pounds. “Really?”

“Yes.” Martin glances at his watch, seeming flustered, but then makes a face. “Oh God, I need to get back, I’ve got a job booked.” He looks back at Douglas. “Are we alright?”

“Yes.” Douglas isn’t, not really: he’s at once giddy with optimism at Martin’s reply even as his heart sags heavy with grief at the death of his third marriage, but none of that is Martin’s problem to deal with and so he says, “Yes, of course. Go on, get to your job.”

Douglas steps back to let Martin get underway and, once Martin’s van has disappeared, walks back to lean against his car and stare pensively at the airfield. He’s old enough to know that second chances don’t come round very often in life, if ever, and as he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath he vows to make the most of this one.


	9. Epilogue

Martin stirs as he wakes, slowly dragging himself up out of sleep and blinking heavily. Douglas is lying behind him, close but not quite touching, and Martin closes his eyes again and inches backward a little, smiling helplessly when his movements make Douglas shift and slide an arm around Martin’s waist to pull him closer so that Douglas can press his face to Martin’s nape. Douglas is still most of the way asleep, and Martin leans back against the comforting bulk of him and strokes the fine hairs on Douglas’ forearm until Douglas mutters in his sleep.

It’s been just over a year since their conversation out at the parking spot by the airfield, since Martin stood there watching Douglas and _willing_ him to read what Martin couldn’t bring himself to ask: namely, whether there might be any remote possibility, once Douglas’ divorce had gone through, that he would consider a new relationship.

Douglas had respected Martin’s request, and nothing more had been said until the day Douglas mentioned the decree absolute had been signed. Martin suspected that Douglas had appreciated the time to come to terms with it; dissolving a marriage – even when it had all ended amicably enough – was surely something that left its mark. So Martin had held his tongue and bided his time until one day, several weeks later, Douglas had asked him if he’d like to get dinner that evening, with a look in his eyes that stated clearly that this was more than just a friendly invitation from one colleague to another.

Douglas’ house had been sold and Douglas had moved into a rented flat, and then set about coaxing Martin over for dinner as often as he could manage, with a lack of subtlety that delighted Martin. The house had held too many memories for Martin to ever be entirely comfortable there again, but the flat was somewhere that felt like _theirs_ and Martin never turned down an invitation.

Behind him Douglas starts to wake, his arm firming around Martin’s waist as he nuzzles Martin’s nape and grunts, “Morning.”

“Morning.” Martin stretches against Douglas, laughing a little when Douglas’ hand splays greedily against his belly. He loves mornings like this, when they’ve no flights scheduled and he’s no jobs booked, and they can linger in bed rather than having to get up to make a productive start on the day.

“Been awake long?” Douglas asks, his fingers tracing idle patterns over Martin’s skin, and Martin shakes his head.

“No, not long.”

Douglas’ touches get lower and lower on Martin’s bare stomach, until Martin dares to cover Douglas’ hand with his own and push it lower.

Douglas is teaching Martin some truly awful habits in bed. He likes it when Martin is demanding, says it turns him on to hear Martin insisting on what he wants; he looks nothing but pleased every time Martin catches a wandering hand to push it between his legs, or curls close to Douglas to murmur in his ear “Will you suck me off? I just… your mouth, it’s been ages since you did, and I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Consequently Martin is developing some very bad habits indeed, and he’s going to have an awful lot to unlearn in the almost impossible eventuality of him taking another lover. One who might not appreciate Martin grabbing their wrist and guiding their hand down until Martin can push his morning erection against their palm.

Douglas, however, makes a pleased noise when Martin does so.

“Slept well, did you?” he says, moving his hand further down to cradle the weight of Martin’s balls.

“Mmm.” Martin squirms a little, excitement already coiling tight and hot in his belly. Douglas’ half-hard cock nudges at his arse, but when he makes to turn over and reciprocate Douglas’ arm tightens.

“No, stay where you are,” he murmurs, and Martin subsides.

Douglas pushes an arm under Martin’s neck and bends his elbow so he can reach Martin’s nipples, and Martin moans softly in his throat under Douglas’ expert touch. Douglas toys with him for a while, rubbing his cheek against Martin’s hair, but at Martin’s little moan of “ _Douglas_ ,” he brings his mouth to Martin’s ear to murmur “Fetch the lubricant out of the drawer.”

Martin’s heart pounds as he leans up to obey, and Douglas’ hand moves down to his thighs. Douglas strokes his palm along Martin’s uppermost leg before gripping it and encouraging him to lift it back and rest it over both of Douglas’, and when Martin lies back down clutching the tube of lubricant his heart thuds hard against his ribs with arousal.

“Come on then.” Douglas holds his hand out in front of Martin’s chest as Martin resettles himself against Douglas, loving the casual strength of him. “You know what to do with that.”

Martin squeezes some out onto Douglas’ fingers with unsteady hands, and snaps the lid shut and tosses it over the side of the bed, moaning a little at the first touch of Douglas’ hand.

Douglas rumbles his approval at Martin as he curls slick fingers around Martin’s cock and starts slow, steady pulls, and Martin writhes against Douglas and moans. Douglas’ fingers are clever; Douglas has spent a lot of time paying attention to precisely _what_ turns Martin on most and now he uses that knowledge to Martin’s advantage. His own advantage too, since Douglas seems to enjoy winding Martin up and then pulling away to trail his fingertips along the soft skin of Martin’s inner thighs exposed by his spread legs.

“ _Douglas_ ,” Martin groans at him after a while, and catches Douglas’ wrist to try and guide his hand back where he wants it. “Douglas, please.”

“Oh, alright,” Douglas says to him. His voice makes Martin shiver, being deep with arousal. “Since you asked so nicely.”

He squeezes Martin’s cock and starts to tug at it, short and efficient strokes, until Martin arches and cries out. He can feel himself leaking – Douglas’ hand is slick with more than just the lubricant Martin smeared on his fingers – and Douglas grunts encouragingly against his hair and rubs his thumb against Martin’s slit until Martin’s hips jerk and he starts to come. Douglas strokes him through it, keeping up the steady pulls on Martin’s cock and also nosing Martin’s ear to drop haphazard kisses onto it as Martin shudders and moans his way through it.

Afterwards Douglas won’t let him turn over to return the favour, merely pushes his wet hand between Martin’s thighs and orders him to press his knees together while Douglas fucks the tight, hot space between his thighs. Like that it doesn’t take Douglas long to come, and Martin brings Douglas’ hand up to suck lewdly on two of his fingers – slick with Martin’s come – as Douglas groans and his come streaks Martin’s thighs.

When Douglas has finished Martin permits himself a small wriggle of pure pleasure. He’s incredibly sweaty and sticky, and his hips and thighs and groin are an utter mess of lube and come, but Douglas hasn’t stopped holding him throughout and his hands are now engaged in stroking Martin’s stomach.

“What are you grinning about?” Douglas whispers in his ear, and Martin laughs aloud in his delight.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just happy.”

“Mmm.” Douglas’ hand moves to his ribs, until Martin squirms ticklishly and catches Douglas’ hand, sliding his fingers through the spaces in Douglas’.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Douglas murmurs to him, after a long, quiet interlude during which Martin’s eyelids slide shut and his breathing starts to slow and deepen.

Martin grumbles a protest. “Why not? We’ve not got any flights scheduled, and I don’t have any jobs.”

“I know.” Douglas kisses his nape. “But I’ve got some flat viewings lined up.”

“Oh.”

Martin tries not to sound too put out. Douglas is hardly going to want to live in a rented flat indefinitely, so it’s only natural that he’ll be starting to look into buying somewhere. But all the same, a small, petty part of Martin wishes that he could at least have waited for a day where Martin had van jobs booked; it’s not very often that they have a full day off together and Martin has already had to reschedule a van job to manage it.

So he says, “Alright,” trying not to sound too disgruntled, and closes his eyes again. “What time do you need to leave?”

“In about an hour,” Douglas says and Martin sags back to lean more firmly against Douglas. There’s no need for Martin to get up, since Douglas has never minded Martin making use of his flat while he’s out and about, but at least he can make the most of this quiet time together before Douglas has to go and Martin draws Douglas’ arm back around his waist.

But Douglas pulls a hand free to tap a finger gently against Martin’s chin. “Don’t get too settled.”

“Why?” Martin flails to recapture Douglas’ hand. “It’s not as though I need to get up.”

“Well, you don’t _need_ to, no. But I was rather hoping that you would come along.”

Martin frowns, puzzled. “Why?”

“So that I can find out what you think of them.”

Douglas’ thumb is rubbing across Martin’s knuckles and Martin yawns, feeling warm and comfortable and disinclined to move, despite Douglas being particularly maddening in his responses this morning.

“I don’t see why you’d need _my_ opinion on them,” he snorts. “God, you’ve seen where I live; I’d hardly call myself a property expert.”

“I have seen where you live, yes,” Douglas agrees, and releases Martin’s hand to stroke his throat gently. Martin tilts his head back, so lulled by the soft brush of Douglas’ fingers that he almost misses what Douglas says next.

“I’m asking you not in your capacity as astute property redeveloper,” Douglas says dryly, “which is a role you are hopelessly unqualified for, believe me. I’m asking you as someone who might, perhaps, one day be interested in inhabiting said flat.”

It takes a moment to sink in, but when it does Martin’s eyes snap open.

“With you?” he demands.

“Yes.”

“You mean… you’re saying that you want me to… to…”

“Move in,” Douglas supplies. “Yes, I am.”

Martin is speechless. He doesn’t quite believe this is happening to _him_ , and after a few moments Douglas kisses his nape and continues, “It’s fine if you don’t want to, of course. Or if you’d rather wait. I just thought that since I’m currently looking to buy somewhere then I might as well see what your thoughts were but you certainly don’t have to–”

“Yes,” Martin blurts. Douglas’ hand is still at his throat and he seizes it. “Yes. I… God, really?”

“Really,” Douglas says into his hair, and Martin shifts. He wants to turn over, to see Douglas’ face, and he squirms until Douglas loosens his hold enough for Martin to roll over and look at him.

“I can’t afford to buy somewhere,” Martin says. He wants to give an unqualified yes – he _longs_ to – but life has taught him that the practicalities are important.

Douglas props himself up on an elbow, resting his head on his hand, and looks at Martin.

“I know you can’t,” he says gently. “But the thing is, you see, I’m going to buy somewhere whatever your answer. If you wanted to come and live in it with me then that would make me happy, and we could work something out as regards your finances, contributions to bills, and so on and so forth. Or we can carry on as we are, except that I’ll be living in a place that I actually own, rather than somewhere I’m only renting.”

Martin wants it so much he can almost _taste_ it, but he can’t stop himself saying “And you’re sure.”

“Martin, really.” Douglas rolls his eyes, and puts an arm around Martin’s waist to draw him close. “Of course I am. When have you ever known me to be unsure about anything?”

Martin lets himself be drawn – “Well, when you put it like that…” – until he can press his face to Douglas’ chest, grinning wildly.

Douglas prods him. “So is that a yes?”

“Yes.” Martin lifts his face to smile at Douglas, not making any attempt to hide his joy. “That’s absolutely, positively, definitely yes.”

“ _Marvellous_.” Douglas kisses him soundly, until he has to stop because Martin is smiling too widely to kiss properly. “Now we ought to get up and get dressed: there are two viewings this morning and then two after lunch.”

“Right.” Martin can’t stop smiling; he must look an utter fool but he really couldn’t care. “What d’you want to do for lunch?”

Douglas, damn him, stretches like a contented cat and says, “Do you know, I rather think I’d like to get lunch in a coffee shop somewhere. Any one you fancy will do, but if you’ve no preference then I’ve got just the one in mind. I went there ages ago and met the most charming young man, it was a shame that he was dressed like something the cat dragged in because otherwise he was rather–”

And Martin swats at him as Douglas catches his wrist and laughs.

 

**End**


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